“Please, son. See me on this.”
A bitterness swelled from deep within — but he swallowed it. “All right, Mom. I’ll see you there.”
50
Ryan took the long way home, down the lonely gravel side roads he’d discovered years ago as a boy on a bicycle. It wasn’t a shortcut by any means. It was a detour that would keep him from coming upon the scene of the crime on Highway 287. He assumed the police would already be there. After the promise to his mother, he didn’t want to be tempted to stop and say something he might regret.
He drove faster than he should have, kicking up loose gravel that pelted the floorboards. Scattered potholes made the largely one-lane road even more treacherous. A few bumps were so big they brought his chin to his chest. It was a jarring ride at such high speed, almost like off-road. A sane driver would have slowed down. But not Ryan, not tonight. The bumps, the jolts, the disoriented sensation — it was a perfect complement to the jumbled thoughts in his present state of mind.
In all the confusion, the thought of Brent lying dead on the highway was foremost in his mind. He was no fan of his brother-in-law, especially after his testimony this morning. Still, the very thought of money in the attic leading to murder in the family was unsettling. He wondered what Liz would think. He could only imagine what her lawyer might make of it. Even without the gun and the audiotape Kozelka might use to frame him, Jackson was bound to point the finger at Ryan. Who else had such obvious motive?
Perhaps he even deserved some blame. Fact was, Brent was dead because Ryan had threatened Kozelka. That made him feel guilty in a way, mostly because of all the times in years past he had wished Brent were gone. Now he was.
The long dirt road fed into the highway near an old barn and wind-ravaged silo. Ryan steered onto the pavement without slowing down, reaching Sarah’s house in record time. The truck skidded to a stop in the driveway, and Ryan jumped out. The porch light was on, brightening the rain-slicked path to the front door. He didn’t bother to knock. The door was unlocked.
“Mom?” he said as he entered the living room.
“In here.” The reply had come from the kitchen.
Ryan hurried inside. His mother was seated at the kitchen table. Sarah was a lump in the chair right beside her, leaning on her like a grieving widow. Ryan saw sadness in his sister’s eyes. Slowly, it turned to rage.
“Oh, Ryan,” she said with contempt. “How could you?”
“How could I what?”
“I’m giving birth next month. How could you do this to my husband?”
“I didn’t do anything to Brent.” He looked at his mother, pleading. “Mom, tell her.”
“I did,” said his mother.
Sarah scoffed. “Framed? Right. I don’t believe it for one second. Brent told me everything before he went to court this morning. He was afraid you might retaliate. But neither one of us ever imagined this.”
“Look, I don’t know what Brent told you, but-”
“He told me that you called him from Panama and asked him to beat up Liz’s lawyer. He wouldn’t do it, so you hired some thug.”
“He said the same thing in court. It’s a lie.”
“Did you hire the same guy to kill my husband, Ryan? Or did you do this job yourself?”
“Sarah, I had nothing to do with Brent’s murder.”
“It all goes back to that night Brent asked you for some money at Mom’s house. You went berserk and started burning it. You almost killed him then. Mom says you even had Dad’s gun that night. You tried to hide it when she walked in, but she saw it. You were gunning for Brent!”
“I didn’t kill Brent, so just shut the hell up!”
Sarah leaned into her mother, crying. Jeanette pulled her daughter close to console her, then looked at Ryan. “We all need to just calm down before we say things we don’t mean. Let’s get a good night’s sleep and talk about this in the morning.”
“No!” shouted Ryan. “You told me on the phone we would discuss this as a family. Well, the family’s all here. Don’t avoid this, Mom. We have to talk — tonight.”
“Now isn’t the time.”
Ryan nearly exploded, but a knock on the front door checked his anger. The three of them glanced at one another, as if to ask who it might be.
“Are you expecting someone?” asked Ryan.
Both women shook their heads.
“Answer it, Ryan. Your sister is in no condition.”
He sighed with exasperation, his feet pounding the floor as he left the kitchen. He yanked hard on the door, harder than necessary. It startled their visitor.
“Hello, Ryan,” the man said timidly.
It was Josh Colburn, the old lawyer who had prepared his father’s will. Ryan hadn’t seen him since the funeral. He was wearing a bright yellow bowling shirt that bore the logo of the local hardware store. “Mr. Colburn,” he said with surprise.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was over at the bowling alley. Word is out about Brent. Poor fellow. I drove by your mother’s house first, but there was nobody there. So I came here as quickly as I could.”
“That’s very nice of you,” he said, bewildered.
“But what’s the hurry?”
“Well, I needed to talk to you. I’m having a little trouble interpreting your father’s instructions.”
“My father? What are you talking about?”
He leaned forward and whispered, as if sharing a matter of national security. “I have the envelope.”
“Mr. Colburn, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The envelope. Frank told me to send it straight to the Denver Post if anyone in the Duffy family was ever harmed.”
A chill went down Ryan’s spine. It was just like Norm had said. In any viable extortion scheme there had to be a safety valve — an unidentified third person who would automatically disclose the secret in the event the blackmailer or his family were ever killed. It was a way to ensure payment and prevent retaliation.
“Did you send it to the Post yet?” asked Ryan.
“No. You see, that’s where I’m confused. I know how your father felt about Brent. He hated him more than you did. To be honest with you, I’m not sure if Brent is considered part of the Duffy family.”
“Where’s the envelope now?”
“Back in my law office. I keep it locked in the safe. Frank told me never to carry it on my person.”
Ryan stepped outside, put a friendly arm around the old man’s shoulder, and started down the porch. “Let’s you and I talk about that,” said Ryan. “On the way to your office.”
The telephone rang after midnight. Amy was stretched across the couch in the living room, watching an old Audrey Hepburn flick. She snatched the cordless receiver from the cocktail table before the piercing ring could wake Taylor or her grandmother.
“Hello.”
“Amy, this is Ryan Duffy.”
She nearly jackknifed on the couch, spilling her steamy bag of microwave popcorn. “How did you get my number?”
“I found an old letter written by a woman named Debby Parkens.”
She rose, stunned. “That’s my mother.”
“I figured. It was postmarked in Boulder. I dialed directory assistance on a hunch. There’s only one Amy Parkens.”
She suddenly regretted ever having told him her real first name. “What do you want?”
