“Lose it,” said Kozelka. “Or I shoot her right now.”
Amy couldn’t move. She tried to take aim, but her hands were unsteady. She knew how to use a gun, but only because her mother’s death had made her afraid of them. She had always tried to learn about the things that frightened her. This shot, however, was beyond her capabilities.
Marilyn squirmed. “He’s bluffing, Amy. He can’t shoot me. I’m too important to him.”
“Drop it!” Kozelka was seething, nearly screaming. “I swear I’ll pop her right here. Right in front of you. You want to see another woman with a bullet in her head, kid?”
The words were like explosives — not just for Amy, but for Marilyn, too. On impulse, she fell back against him with all her force, knocking them both off the ledge. Together, they tumbled backward, head over heels, rolling out of control toward the observation platform.
Amy charged down the steps after them, but they were rolling too fast down the steep embankment, gaining momentum. They slammed against the rail at the edge of the platform, Kozelka taking the major blow. The wooden beams split on impact. Splintered chunks of wood fell two hundred feet down into the canyon, into the churning river water far below. Marilyn grabbed a railing to stop her fall. Kozelka grabbed the other, but his weight was too great. The bolts ripped from the footing. His body sailed over the edge, but he caught the bottom of the platform in a desperate lunge. He barely had a grip. His hand was slipping. He struggled to pull himself up, but couldn’t. He looked down. The fall was straight down. He could barely see bottom.
Amy ran to the platform and grabbed Marilyn. “Are you okay?”
She dabbed some blood from her nose. “Yeah. I think so.”
Amy peered over the edge and looked down at Kozelka. He was flailing at the end of the broken railing, like a hooked fish, trying to pull himself up. From this height, the fall alone would be deadly. Just below them, in a magnificent display of overkill, tons of running water shot from the open outlet tunnel that cut through the canyon wall.
Amy handed Marilyn her gun. “Keep an aim on him. If he tries anything funny, you know what to do.”
Marilyn took aim. “What are you doing?”
Amy braced herself against the railing and leaned over the edge. She extended her hand toward him, but not all the way. It was just out of his reach.
Marilyn’s voice shook. “Amy, get away. He’ll kill you.”
She ignored her. “You’re going to die, mister. Unless you tell me the truth.”
He groped desperately for her hand, but he couldn’t make contact. He was out of breath, barely able to speak. “What. Truth?”
“Tell me, you bastard. Did you kill my mother?”
“No.”
“You ordered her killed, didn’t you!”
“No. I had nothing to do with it.”
“You’re lying! Don’t play this game. Tell the truth and I’ll help you.”
“I am telling the truth. I didn’t kill your old lady. I didn’t have her killed. That’s the truth!”
Amy nearly burst with anger. She wanted the confession, but she couldn’t just let him fall. Mercifully, reluctantly, she lowered her hand.
Kozelka was suddenly rigid. His eyes were two narrow slits. “Don’t look now, kid. But Marilyn Gaslow is about to shoot you in the back.”
Amy gasped and turned quickly. Kozelka freed one hand and grabbed a fallen branch from the cliffside the size of a baseball bat. He was about to crack Amy’s skull, as if betting that his beleaguered ex-wife wouldn’t pull the trigger. She did. Twice. The booming gunshots ripped through the canyon.
His head snapped back in a violent explosion. Amy’s heart was in her throat as she watched him fall away, a long and graceful descent into the gaping canyon, the blood trailing from his massive head wound like a fatal red jet stream. She looked away before his body splattered on the rocks in the stream below. Shaking with emotion, Amy slid back onto the platform. Marilyn scooted toward her, dropped the gun, and pulled her close.
They held each other in silence, overcome with shock and horror. Marilyn stroked her head. “It’s okay. That bastard has had it coming since I was fifteen years old.”
Amy’s voice quivered. “He said he had nothing to do with my mom’s death.”
“I heard.”
“It had to be him. How could it not be?”
“Just because he denied it doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”
“I was looking him right in the eye, Marilyn. He was barely hanging on, scared for his life. So scared, he was believable. I don’t think he killed Mom.”
Their embrace tightened. Amy was looking past Marilyn, peering over her shoulder into the night sky. The clouds had cleared. Stars were everywhere, exactly the way they’d looked the night her mother died. The patterns began to swirl against the blackness, then finally came into focus. Amy felt a chill, struck by the sudden realization.
Marilyn said, “I don’t know what to think.”
“I don’t either,” she said quietly. “Except the unthinkable.”
67
Amy left before the police arrived. With Marilyn’s permission, she drove Jeb’s van back to Boulder. Ryan and Marilyn had plenty to explain on their own, which would probably take all night. She, too, would have to give a full statement. That was fine with her. Before talking to the police, however, she had to do one more thing.
She had to unravel her latest suspicions.
It was after 4:00 A.M. when she arrived back at the apartment. It was dark inside, save for the night light in the hall. She peeked in on Taylor. She was asleep on her stomach in one of those lumpy positions that only a four- year-old could find comfortable, scrunched up like a turtle. She stroked her head lightly and kissed her on the cheek. Taylor didn’t stir. Amy turned toward the door, then started. Gram was standing in the doorway. It was an eerie feeling, one that angered her inside. She rarely shared a tender moment with Taylor when she didn’t feel Gram was somehow watching. She used to think it was out of concern. She was beginning to think otherwise.
Amy stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.
“I heard you come in,” said Gram. She was dressed in her nightgown and slippers, a silk cap protecting her hair.
“Did you wait up for me?”
“Of course. I was worried about you, darling.”
Amy walked down the hall toward the kitchen. Gram followed and took a seat at the table. “What happened tonight?”
Amy opened the refrigerator and poured herself some orange juice. She leaned against the counter, leaving Gram alone at the table. “I found out who didn’t kill Mom.”
Gram looked confused. “What?”
“But I think I know who did.”
“Who?”
She sipped her orange juice. “You don’t want to tell me?”
“What are you talking about, Amy?”
Her tone sharpened. “Remember how I told you that I couldn’t remember much about the night Mom died? Every time I got to a certain point, those numbers would pop into my head.”
“Yes.”
“I told you it was M 57. I always thought that was a form of psychological self-preservation. When ever I got too close to my most painful memories, my adult brain would kick in and short-circuit everything, cluttering my mind with the astronomical designation for the star I was looking at the night Mom died.”
“That would be logical.”
“Except that I lied to you last night. I did see numbers when I went back to the house. But this time it wasn’t
