Chapter Twelve
The funeral was held in an old cemetery on the side of the mountain overlooking the city. C.J. used to come up here with Hank when he visited his long-deceased wife, Margaret. She’d asked him once why he never remarried.
When you have the best, it is hard to settle for anything else, he’d told her. I didn’t have her long, but I’m not complaining. I treasure every day we had together. She’s all I need, alive or in my memories.
The wind whipped through the tall dried grass that grew around the almost abandoned cemetery. But as she and Boone neared Margaret Knight’s grave, the weeds had been neatly cleared away and there were recently added new silk flowers in the vase at the base of her headstone. Hank must have added them recently, she realized. Next to the grave site, C.J. saw the dirt peeking out from under a tarp and the dark hole beneath the casket.
C.J. had forgone a church service, deciding that here on this mountainside was where Hank would have liked a few words said over him. He didn’t go in for fanfare. In fact he preferred to fly under the radar.
Because he’d had something to hide? That was the question, wasn’t it?
She pushed all such thoughts from her mind. She couldn’t have been wrong about Hank. Just as all these people couldn’t have been either, she told herself.
A crowd had already gathered and more were arriving, most of them walking up from town. A few had caught rides. Many were closer to Hank’s age, but still the group appeared to be a cross-section of the city’s population. All people whose lives had been touched by Hank Knight.
“Are all these people here for Hank?” Boone asked beside her.
She smiled through her tears and nodded. She saw the mourners through Boone’s eyes, a straggly bunch of ne’er-do-wells who’d loved Hank. “These people are his family. They’re all he had other than his late wife, Margaret.” She frowned. “He once mentioned a sister. I got the impression she’d died when they were both fairly young. He’d once mentioned being an orphan.” More and more she realized how little she’d really known about Hank.
As the pastor took his place, C.J. smiled at all the people who’d come to say goodbye to Hank. He would have been so touched by this, she thought as the pastor said a few words and several others chimed in before someone burst out in a gravelly rendition of “Amazing Grace.”
C.J. felt as if a warm breeze had brushed past her cheek. Her throat closed with such emotion that she could no longer sing the words. Boone put his arm around her as the coffin was lowered into the ground and she leaned into him, accepting his strength. At least for a little while.
* * *
BOONE HAD BEEN to plenty of small-town funerals. Most everyone in town turned up. But he hadn’t expected the kind of turnout that Hank Knight got on this cold December day in Butte, Montana. He was impressed and he could see that C.J. was touched by all the people who’d come to pay their respects to her partner. He could tell she was fighting to try to hold it together.
As he listened to the pastor talk, he studied those who were in attendance, wondering if Hank’s killer was among them. He spotted one man who’d hung back some. He wore a black baseball cap and kept his head down. Every once in a while, he would sneak a look at C.J.
While the man’s face was mostly in shadow, once when he looked up, Boone caught sight of what appeared to be a scar across his right cheek. The scar tissue caught in the sunlight, gleaming white for a moment before the man ducked his head.
Something about the man had caught his eye, but he had to admit there were a dozen others in the crowd who looked suspicious. Hank’s clients were a rough-and-tumble bunch, no doubt about it. Anyone of them could have had some kind of grudge against him and done something about it.
But Boone’s gaze kept coming back to the man in the black baseball cap. The moment the pastor finished, the man turned to leave. That’s when Boone saw the way the man limped as he disappeared over the hill. Boone kept watching, hoping to see what vehicle the man was driving, but he didn’t get a chance to see as the crowd suddenly surrounded C.J. to offer condolences.
She’d stood up well during the funeral, but as the mourners left, some singing hymns as they headed back into town, Boone could see how raw her grief was.
“I’ll give you some time alone,” he said and walked back toward his pickup. He hadn’t gone far when he glanced back to see her, head bowed, body shuddering with sobs. He kept walking, moved by the love and respect Hank Knight had reaped.
When C.J. joined him at the pickup, her eyes were red, but she had that strong, determined set to her shoulders again.
“You must be ready for more food, knowing you,” he said. “Where do you suggest we go where we can talk? I found something in Hank’s car that I think you need to see.”
Just as he suspected, getting back to business was exactly what C.J. needed. He drove to a Chinese food place on the way. It was early enough that the place was nearly empty.
After ordering, he took out the boarding pass and the train schedule. “I found both of these stuck in his vehicle book in a very clean glove box.” He pushed the boarding pass across the table. She looked at it and then at him.
“I guess he really did fly to Seattle,” she said, sounding sad.
“Who does he know there?”
“I have no idea. He’s never mentioned anyone.”
“And he’s never been before?”
She shook her head, but he could see the wheels turning. “There were a couple times a year when he would take a few days off. I never asked where he went. I just assumed it was for a case. Most of the time he never left Butte. Or at least I thought he hadn’t.”
Boone nodded. “That’s not all.” He slid the train schedule across to her. “What do you make of this?”
C.J. studied it for a moment. “This doesn’t mean he was planning to take a train,” she finally said. “Anyway, no passenger train comes through Butte. The only line is to the north up on the Hi-Line.”
He flipped the schedule over. “Look what he had marked. The times for the train from Seattle to Whitehorse, Montana, and the date—day after tomorrow.”
Her gaze shot up to his. “I don’t understand.”
“Your partner was going to meet that train.”
She stared at him. “Talk about jumping to conclusions.”
“Look at the evidence. He had packed, shut down his office and had this information in the glove box of his car. He flew to Seattle last week. Then he packed and cleaned his car. It seems pretty clear to me that he planned to drive north and meet the train when it came into Whitehorse.”
“You’re reading a lot into a train schedule and some scribbles.”
She wasn’t fooling him. He’d seen her expression when she’d recognized Hank’s writing, the same way he had. “If you want to find his killer, then I suggest you come with me. Whoever gets off that train is the key.”
“Go to Whitehorse?” She raised her eyes to his for a moment. “Let’s say you’re right. Even if we met this train, how would we know—”
“Whitehorse is just one quick stop for the train. Our depot isn’t even manned. Only a few people ever get off there. It shouldn’t be that hard to figure out who Hank was meeting. This is about my sister and her kidnapping. Come on, C.J. You aren’t going to keep arguing that it’s not, are you?”
She met his gaze. He had that urge to gather her up in his arms, kiss her senseless and carry her away. “Whitehorse,” she repeated.
He could see she looked scared. “You coming with me?”
* * *
BY THE TIME Boone dropped her off at her house to pack for their trip the next day, it was already getting dark. This was why she hated winter hours. Living in Butte, she’d gotten used to the snow and cold. As Hank used to say, It invigorates a person and makes them really appreciate spring.
Back in her house, she pulled out her suitcase, but was too antsy to start packing. She made herself a cup of tea and went to sit by the front window. She loved her view of the city below. It had sold her on this house. The view and the small deck off the front. During the warm months, she spent hours sitting out there watching the lights come on. This house had filled her with a contentment—a peace—that she feared she would never feel again.
Hank’s death, the revelations he’d left behind, Boone... She thought of the handsome cowboy. Did he really think he was helping her? Just being around him left her feeling...discontent. Certainly no peace. He made her want something she’d told herself she wasn’t ready for, didn’t need, didn’t want.
C.J. shook her head at the memory of being on the street when she’d been so sure he was going to kiss her. He’d been staring at her lips and she’d felt... What had she felt? A tingling in her core. An ache. She’d felt desire.
She groaned. “And now you’re really going with him all the way to Whitehorse, Montana, wherever that is? Have you lost your mind?” Her words echoed in the quiet house. She picked up her tea cup and took a sip.
At moments like this she felt the grief over Hank’s death more profoundly. She swallowed back a sob as she thought of his funeral and all the people who had shown up. They’d loved him. She’d loved him. He’d saved her when she was a child. Her mother had been struggling just to keep her head above water. Hank had taken up the slack. He’d given C.J. purpose.
So was it possible that he could have been dirty? How else did she explain all that money in those stocks and bonds he’d left her?
Her head ached. None of this made any sense and hadn’t since Hank was killed. Exhaustion pulled at her. She’d known the funeral would be hard. She just hadn’t realized how hard. But seeing all the people who loved Hank had helped. Just the thought of them brought tears to her eyes again. They couldn’t all have been wrong about Hank.
Her mind reeled at the thought of Hank keeping whatever had been going on with him from her. She felt betrayed, adrift. Had he planned to leave town for good and not even mention it to her? Why would he do that?
Because it had something to do with Jesse Rose and her kidnapping. Which meant that Hank either thought it was too dangerous to tell her or... Or he didn’t want her to know what he was involved in because he was up to his neck in something illegal.
Either way, there was no more denying it. This was about Jesse Rose and the McGraw kidnapping case. Hank had been to Seattle, and right before he was killed. She had no idea what that might have to do with the second trip he was apparently planning. Seattle was to the west, while Whitehorse, Montana, was up on the Hi-Line in the middle of the state. What did the two places have to do with each other, except for the fact that the McGraw ranch was outside of Whitehorse?
Nor did she have any idea of who he might be planning to meet on the train from Seattle. The same person he’d visited in Seattle in the days before he was killed?
As if all of this wasn’t troubling enough, Hank had a whole bunch of money that he’d left to her and she had no idea where it had come from.
Maybe more upsetting than him not telling her about it was the fact that he’d cleaned his car, packed his best clothing and shut down his office as if...as if he wasn’t coming back.
Tears filled her eyes. Had he been running away? Then why the train schedule? Was he meeting someone on that train coming from Seattle to Whitehorse? Someone he planned to abscond with?
A shock rattled through her at the thought. Had she known Hank Knight at all?
But that was just it. She had known him. He had been a good man and there was a good explanation for all of this. She just had to find it. That meant going to Whitehorse and meeting that train from Seattle—with Boone.
“You should get some rest,” Boone had said when he’d dropped her off. “I’ll pick you up in the morning. I hope you’ll go with me.”
“I—”
“Sleep on it,” he had said quickly. And for a moment, he’d gotten that look in his eyes.
She shivered now at the memory and touched her upper lip with the tip of her tongue. She almost wished the man would just kiss her and get it over with. That made her smile.
Wiping at her tears, she turned off the light and started out of the dark living room in the direction of her bedroom. She’d only taken a few steps when she heard the noise and stopped. Her gaze shot to the window. She hadn’t realized that the wind had come up. It now whipped the branches of the tress outside.
That must be what she’d heard. One of the branches scraping against the side of the house. Only the noise she’d heard... It had sounded like someone trying to pry open a window. Like a lock breaking?
She reminded herself that last night she’d thought she’d seen a man standing out in her yard and it had turned out to be a shadow and nothing more.
A dark shadow swept past the glass. Her breath caught in her throat as her heart began to pound. Someone was out there trying to get in.
She rushed to the table where she’d dropped her purse when she’d come into the house. As she heard another noise down the hallway in her bedroom, much like the first, she managed to fumble her cell phone from her purse. Her fingers brushed her gun as a louder noise came from the back of the house. It had been one of the old cantankerous windows being forced open.
Her heart pounding, she pulled out the pistol, snapped off the safety and laid it on the table as she turned her attention to her phone. She hit 911, all the time estimating how long it would take for the police to get there. Too long. That’s if they even came. Once they knew it was her calling, they’d just think she was being a hysterical woman again. Just like she’d been when she’d told them that Hank’s hit-and-run had been murder.
* * *
BOONE HAD DRIVEN all the way back to his motel but he hadn’t pulled in. Something kept nagging at him. He hadn’t wanted to leave C.J. alone tonight. After that near so-called accident earlier, he feared she wasn’t safe.
Of course, she’d argued that she was fine. She would lock her doors. She had a gun. She could take care of herself.
But still, he didn’t like it. He kept thinking about the man he’d seen at the funeral in the black baseball cap. He’d meant to ask C.J. about him. Something still nagged at him about the man. Was it possible he’d been driving the car earlier that had almost run them down?
Reminding himself how exhausted C.J. had looked, he told himself that he could ask her about it tomorrow. She probably wouldn’t even know who the man was. Then again, she seemed to know everyone in Butte.
Swearing, he swung the pickup around and went back, knowing it would nag at him until he asked her. Also, it wouldn’t hurt to check on her as long as she didn’t think that was what he was doing. He told himself that if all the lights were out, he wouldn’t bother her. But if she wasn’t asleep yet...
As he neared the small house overlooking the city, he saw that the lights were all out. He couldn’t help being disappointed. He wasn’t good at leaving things undone and for some reason, this seemed too important to wait.
He started to turn around since her house was at the end of dead-end street, a deep gully on one side and an empty lot on the other. Walkerville was even older than uptown Butte since this is where much of the original mining had begun. The houses were small and old, but the view was incredible, he noticed as he swung into her driveway to turn around.
The pickup’s headlights caught movement at the back of the house.
* * *
IN THE DARK living room, C.J. put down the phone as she heard a loud crash at the back of the house—and picked up the gun. She moved slowly down the hallway toward the back of the house and her bedroom, the gun clutched in both hands in firing position.
She spent hours at the shooting range—but she’d never had to use her weapon as a PI. She hoped she wouldn’t tonight.
The cold wind that had chilled her at the funeral earlier had picked up even more. She could feel a stiff breeze winding down the hallway from where someone had opened the window.
Stopping to listen, she heard nothing but the wind and the occasional groan of the old house. She knew most of those groans by heart. What she feared she would hear was the creak of old floorboards as someone moved across them headed her way.
The house was dark, except for the cloud-shrouded moonlight that filtered in through the sheers at the windows. Shadows played across the hallway.
As she neared the bedroom where the noise had come from she could make out the glittered remains of her shattered lamp on the floor. What she couldn’t see was her intruder. Snaking her hand around the edge of the doorway, she felt for the light switch. She’d just found it when the curtain at the window suddenly snapped as it billowed out on a gust of wind, making her jump.
She found the light switch again and readied herself. Her intruder had either left. Or he was waiting in the pitch-black corners of her bedroom to jump out at her.
* * *
BOONE CUT HIS lights and engine and was out of the pickup in a heartbeat. He ran toward the back of the house, realizing belatedly that he should have grabbed something he could use for a weapon.
The dark shadow he’d seen was gone. He was telling himself that the person had taken off when he’d been caught in the beams of the pickup’s lights. Then he saw the open window and the large overturned flowerpot someone had used to step on to climb into the house.
His mind whirled. Had C.J. had time to go to bed? He looked around, not sure what was beyond this open window. The person he’d seen could have dropped off into the ravine next to the house and could be long gone. Or he could have gone into the house and was now inside. He could have C.J.
Boone pulled out his phone and quickly keyed in her number. He waited, listening to the wind and his heart, for the phone to ring. And prayed she hadn’t turned hers off.
* * *
C.J. JUMPED AS her phone rang in the other room. She glanced back down the hallway, distracted for a split second.
At a sound in the bedroom, she turned back, but too late. A large dark figure came busting out of the bedroom. She raised the gun, got off a wild shot, heard a groan. But then she was hit by the man’s large, solid body as he crashed into her. He knocked the breath out of her, slamming her back against the wall before she hit the floor hard, gasping for breath.
Her phone was still ringing as she rolled to her stomach, the weapon still clutched in her hand. All her training took over as her intruder pounded toward the front door. “Stop!” she cried, leveling the laser beam on the man’s back.
He was fumbling at the door lock.
C.J. pushed herself up to her knees and tried to hold the gun steady. “Stop!” It happened in slow motion, but only took a few seconds. She raised her weapon, the laser jittering in the middle of his back as her mind raced. Pull the trigger? Shoot him in the back? Or let him leave? She’d seen that he was limping. Had she hit him with the first shot she’d fired?
“Don’t make me shoot you!” Her voice broke.
He got the door unlocked, flung it open and stumbled out into the night. As her phone stopped ringing, she leaned back against the wall, still holding the gun, her heart thundering in her chest.
* * *
BOONE HEARD THE phone ring inside the house just moments before he heard the gunshot and the pounding of feet headed toward the front of the house. He raced in that direction in time to see a large dark figure come running out of the house, leap the porch railing and disappear over the side of the yard and into the ravine. As he did, Boone saw that the man was limping badly.
“C.J.!” he yelled as he ran up onto the porch. “C.J., it’s me, Boone. Are you all right?”
“Boone.” Her voice sounded distant and weak.
He rushed into the open doorway and fumbled for the light switch. An overhead fixture blinked on, blinding him for a moment. He saw her cell phone on the table next to her open purse.
“I’m all right.”
He turned on the hall light and following her voice, he found her sitting at the end of it, the gun resting between her legs. Bright droplets on the wood floor caught his eye. Blood. He rushed down the hall to drop to his knees next to her. “Were you hit?”
She shook her head. “I fired the only shot. I think I caught him in the leg. He was limping.”
“Did you get a look at him?” he asked as he pulled out his phone to call the police.
“Don’t do that.”
He looked up at her in surprise. “But your neighbors...”
“They’ve heard gunshots before. They won’t call it in.”
“But—”
“If we hope to meet that train in Whitehorse, we don’t want to get involved with the cops, not now. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. Nothing was taken. I didn’t get a good look at him. And I don’t have the best relationship with the cops in this town right now.” There was a pleading in her gaze. “I’ll just clean up the blood.” She pushed herself to her feet.
Boone wanted to argue but he remembered what the detective had said about PIs. Apparently she was right about their relationship. It wasn’t one-sided.
He rose with her. He could tell that she was still shocked and off balance. He knew she wasn’t thinking clearly. But he couldn’t disagree about what would happen if they called the cops. A shooting would mean a lot of explaining. She was right. They had to meet that train if they hoped to find out who had killed her partner and why—and what it might have to do with Jesse Rose and her kidnapping all those years ago.
But what had this been about tonight?
“I’ll take care of the window,” he said as he moved to the bedroom. The lock had been broken. “I could pick up a new lock at the hardware store in the morning to fix this.”
“I don’t think he’ll be back.”
“So you think it was a robbery gone wrong?”
She shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “What else?”
“How about something to do with Hank’s death?”
C.J. finally looked at him. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I saw a man at the funeral. He had a scar on his cheek, wore a dark baseball cap pulled low. Ring any bells? He was limping—like the man who just ran out of here.”
She frowned. “He doesn’t sound familiar. You said he was limping at the funeral?”
“Yes. He kept his face hidden beneath the brim of his baseball cap except when he was looking at you. He seemed to have a lot of interest in you. And unless I’m mistaken, the man you just chased out of here was wearing a dark baseball cap.”
* * *
SHE’D SHOT HIM! Cecil couldn’t believe it. He drove back to his motel room, parked where he couldn’t be seen from the office and limped inside. His leg hurt like hell and it was still bleeding. The blood had soaked into his jean pant leg.
He pulled out the motel room key, opened the door and slipped inside. In the bathroom, he pulled down his jeans and looked at his leg. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it was going to be.
The bullet appeared to have cut a narrow trench through the skin. At least the slug hadn’t hit bone. Nor was it still in there. That was something, since that leg had already been injured years ago. He still had the scar, a constant reminder of how badly things had gone that night.
Opening the shopping bag he’d picked up at the convenience mart, he pulled out the alcohol bottle, opened it and, gritting his teeth, stepped into the bathtub and poured the icy liquid over his wound.
He had to hold on to the sink to keep from passing out from the pain. What hurt worst was that he’d failed tonight. He pulled the length of cord from his pocket. It should have been around C.J. West’s neck.
His cell phone rang. He checked caller ID. His ex-wife. He’d been trying to get back together with her, because he still loved her. Also he needed her more than she could know. He let it ring another time, before he took her call. As he watched his blood stain the white porcelain of the cheap motel room tub, he said cheerfully, “Tilly, I’m so glad you called. I was just thinking about you.”