Rip glanced at Mrs. Gerisch, then turned to Heather. “Your mom sure has gotten quiet.”
“You all right, Mom?” Heather asked.
“Just thinking,” Mom answered. She was pointing at the lake. “I haven’t been here in years, but didn’t there used to be a big willow tree over near that dock?”
“I remember that tree,” Pastor Welsh answered. “Rip and Judi would have been really little when that tree came down.”
“I totally forgot about it,” Judi said excitedly. “Dad had an old tire and rope attached to one of the branches as a swing. I remember they’d have people over to swing over the edge of the water. Everybody loved it.”
“I don’t remember it,” Rip said.
“Me either,” Heather said.
“I was only, like, four or five, so you guys would have been really small,” Judi said.
“You ever go on that swing, Mom?” Heather asked.
“Every once in a while,” Mom said. “But we did shoot the guns quite a bit. It was fun.”
“I remember that too,” Judi said. “They would throw those clay thingies over the water and shoot them.”
“Clay pigeons,” Mom said. “All you kids would sit right about where we are now with your fingers over your ears, cheering or booing if a target was missed or hit.”
“I remember that gun with the big orange handle,” Judi said. “I remember how loud it was.”
Mom smiled and it quickly faded. “That was your father’s service revolver, Heather. The one with the bright orange rubber pistol grip on it.” She shook her head. “I used to tease him about getting such a silly color.” She smiled. “They used to hang a paper plate on that old willow tree and shoot at it with that pistol. Your dad was an excellent shot.”
“Why did they cut the tree down?” Judi asked.
“It was leaning,” Pastor Welsh said. “It was just a matter of time before it fell over. Your mom and dad figured it was best to bring it down, particularly with kids all over the place.”
“That tree was a whopper, though,” Mom said, staring dreamily at the place where it once stood.
“It took the better part of a weekend to get it out,” Pastor Welsh said. “Seemed like every man who owned a chain saw within a fifty-mile radius was here.”
“I still don’t remember any of it,” Heather said, turning to Rip. “Do you?”
Rip had a peculiar look on his face. He was staring at the lake.
“You okay?” Heather asked.
He didn’t say anything.
“Rip?” she said, waving her hand in front of his face. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
He turned to her and their eyes met. It wasn’t that we’re connected look she thought they shared earlier. He was clearly troubled.
“I kind of feel like I just saw a ghost,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Heather,” he said, before stopping and closing his eyes and rubbing them.
“What is it, Rip? Tell me.”
He stared at her and his answer came in a whisper. “I’ve seen a gun like the one your mom just described.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
So you’re saying that Kevin Hart killed my father and his own father?” Heather asked.
It was about the fifth time Heather had asked that question over the last fifteen minutes, and Rip still wasn’t prepared to answer. As soon as their little shindig ended, they had asked Pastor Welsh to meet them at St. Paul’s for a powwow, and it was the first thing out of her mouth as they sat down in Welsh’s office.
“All I’m saying is that I’ve seen a pistol, with an orange grip on it, in Kevin’s boat.”
“And it was a big gun?” she asked, panicked.
“Yes, Heather,” Rip said. “You told me the investigators thought that the killer may have known your dad and Mr. Hart, right? And that they believe it was your dad’s gun that killed them both?”
“Kevin was only fifteen when they were killed,” Heather said numbly. “It’s unbelievable.”
“I’m sorry to bring it all back,” Rip said. “I just figured you’d want to know. There’s a chance that Kevin just has a very similar—”
“Of course I’d want to know,” she interrupted, crossing her arms and shaking her head.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” Rip said, glancing at Pastor Welsh, who seemed uneasy. Rip figured Welsh had listened to just about every problem in the world from behind that desk.
But murder?
“What am I supposed to do?” Heather asked.
“Talk to the chief about it,” Pastor Welsh said.
“Good idea,” Rip said.
“And just to be safe,” Welsh added, “you should probably step away from this and let somebody else handle it.”
“No way. I want to go and talk to Kevin,” Heather said. “Like, right now.”
“Are you crazy?” Rip asked. “If we’re right . . . Heather, tell Chief Reynolds about it and take a few days off. Maybe they can get a warrant to search the boat.”
“It’s been twenty years,” Heather said, standing and walking to the corner of the office. She turned around. “There is no way it’s the same gun. Are you positive it had an orange grip?”
“Yeah, but the more I think about it, the more I’m sure we’re overreacting here,” Rip said. “Kevin’s a tool, but he hasn’t always been. What reason could there be for fifteen-year-old Kevin to have wanted his father dead?”
“You’re probably right,” Heather said, rubbing her temples, looking dazed.
Welsh started to chime in and then stopped. Rip couldn’t ever remember him hesitating before. He looked almost . . . uncomfortable again.
“What is it?” Rip asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Tell us,” Heather said, her eyes narrowing.
“Actually,” Welsh said, looking like he regretted what he was about to say. “Kevin may have had millions of reasons.”
“Don’t say that,” Heather said, shaking her head again.
“Lord, forgive me for saying this,” Welsh said. “But Walter Hart, rest his soul, sat right where we are on numerous occasions. We had a lot of talks about Kevin, and most of them weren’t too pleasant.”
Heather winced. “I don’t ever remember Mr. Hart saying anything but nice things about Kevin.”
“In public,” Welsh said. “That’s what the Harts have always done. And I sort of feel like I’m violating confidentiality, but two men have been killed here and . . .” He paused and brought his hands to the sides of his face.
“And what?” Heather asked.
Welsh seemed to mull over his response. “And guns with orange rubber grips aren’t all that popular.”
“This is impossible,” Heather said, pacing back and forth across the office. “But if it isn’t, what Andy told Kevin at the factory won’t be true. Vengeance will be mine.”
“Andy said that to Kevin?” Welsh asked.
“Yeah,” Rip said. “He also called him ‘Cain.’ ”
“What?” Welsh said, followed by an awkward silence.
“Cain,” Rip repeated.
“Good Lord,” Welsh said as if a light just went on at the back of his mind. He took his turn standing. “Cain?”
“What is it?” Rip asked.
Welsh looked at Heather. “Tell me again what Andy said about the photograph of your father and Walter Hart.”
Heather glanced at Rip and then back to the minister. “He said, ‘They are able.’”
Welsh sat back down and rubbed at his eyes. He took a deep breath and his head teetered slowly back and forth. “Heavens. He was telling you who the killer is.”
“By saying they are able?” Rip said.
Welsh glanced at Rip and then looked right at Heather.
“Andy wasn’t saying they are a-b-l-e.”
“I heard it,” Rip said.
“So did I,” Heather added. “It’s exactly what Andy said.”
&n
bsp; “No,” Welsh said. “Andy said that Kevin is Cain, and that your dad and Walter Hart are capital A-b-e-l.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Rip and Judi decided to meet Andy and Chelsea over at the park to watch a few innings of Chelsea’s brother’s ball game. The only reason they were sitting in the bleachers was because that’s where Chelsea was. Rip would have rather been parked under a tree and some shade, because it was about a trillion degrees outside again and he had the mother ship of headaches docking between his ears.
Rip still hadn’t heard from Heather. She wasn’t working, wasn’t at her mom’s house, wasn’t home, and he’d been lighting her phone up all morning with no luck. He was hoping she’d taken Welsh’s advice and shared what she found out with Chief Reynolds.
He hadn’t said anything to Judi about the gun. In fact, he, Welsh, and Heather agreed not to say anything to anyone about it, but Rip was still afraid that Heather was going to somehow confront Kevin Hart himself.
Judi elbowed him and then cocked her head toward Andy who was one row down in the bleachers in front of them. Chelsea and Andy weren’t holding hands, they were holding pinkies. Rip winked at Judi and she smiled.
“Guess who’s going over to Chelsea’s tonight for dinner?”
“Someone that’s holding pinkies with her?” Rip asked. “I may have to separate those two. It’s getting way too physical.”
“I had a nice little chat with Heather’s mom last night,” Judi said.
I’m thinking my chat with Heather last night was a little more interesting, Rip thought. “What did you guys talk about?” he asked.
“Mrs. Gerisch said that Heather’s faith has inspired her to rethink her own,” Judi said. “She seemed a little shy talking about it, but it’s good to hear her bring it up.”
“That’s cool,” Rip said, quickly praying that same faith of Heather’s was guiding her, wherever she happened to be.
“For the most part,” Judi said, “God has really been good to . . .” She paused and frowned.
“You can say it,” Rip said. “God has been good to us.”
Just the idea of Judi mentioning that, in itself, was a miracle compared to where she had been just a few weeks ago. Heck, a few days ago, for that matter. She and Andy were finally on the right path, but at the moment, that was the least of his concerns.
He took out his phone and tried calling Heather again. It went straight to voice mail and he didn’t leave a message. He took a deep breath and a little pain shot through his side as only one thought repeatedly ran through his mind.
Where are you, Heather?
Kevin Hart thought about telling Lynn to send Heather away, but if the whole Ripley-getting-fired thing ever got out of control, it would be nice to have her accessible as a potential mediator.
The door opened. Heather was in street clothes. She never was quite the slave to fashion that Carrie had become, which was a good thing, but at the same time, a personal shopper could do her wonders for the days she wasn’t playing policewoman. She had a serious look on her face, and he would have bet Carrie’s half of his fortune that Heather was there to lobby for Ripley to get his job back. Needless to say, if that were the case, she was about to waste everyone’s time.
“Hello, Kevin,” she said, sounding more businesslike than when she wore her uniform.
“Hi there. What’s up?” he said, standing and walking over to the bar. “You’re not working. How about a cocktail?”
“No thanks,” she said. “I’m good.” She didn’t seem good. She seemed uptight.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the overstuffed chairs on the other side of his desk. “You been busy keeping the criminals off Benning’s streets?”
“Here and there.”
“Out chasing the Summer Santa again?”
She gave him a benign smile. “The Summer Santa is an unusual guy. He seems to think that doing a whole lot of good makes up for a whole lot of bad.”
“Interesting,” he said. “You all right? You seem a bit out of sorts.”
She shrugged. “I guess you could say that I’ve had a pretty strange twenty-four hours.”
He poured himself a splash of scotch and returned to his desk. “How’s that?”
“I was over at Judi’s last night, and my mom was talking about how all of our dads used to shoot guns in Judi’s backyard. I don’t remember any of it. Do you?”
“No,” he said. “I was never quite the hunter my dad was.”
“I see,” she said quickly. The way she said it was without that signature smidgen of fear that was usually sprinkled on the edge of her voice.
He figured he’d try to get that fear to resurface and take control of the conversation.
“Why are you asking?” he said loudly. A little too loud. He wondered if she saw through his intimidation tactics.
“Because my dad’s gun came up in the conversation,” she said, leaning forward. “The same gun—you know—that they thought may have killed our fathers?”
“I’ve heard that,” he said. Is that what this is about? “But I can assure you I never thought your dad did it, Heather.”
She gave him a hard look. “Me either. But do you remember seeing his gun, Kev?”
“No,” he said. Of course he’d seen the gun. In fact, even though it hadn’t been fired in twenty years, he still enjoyed looking at it once in a while. Holding it felt . . . empowering.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll take your word for it.”
He didn’t like the way that sounded, nor did he like the way she was looking at him. He narrowed his eyes, remembering the last time he’d seen the gun. Ripley.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. “Why wouldn’t you take my word for it?”
“Just a hunch about something,” she said. The way she maintained eye contact with him was completely unlike her. “Who do you think killed them, Kevin?”
I killed them. I capped my dad right in the back of the head. Greedy old pig never knew it was coming.
“How would I know that?” he asked slowly. “And why bring all this up again now?”
“Don’t take it personally,” she said. “It’s just that I’m thinking about reopening the investigation and was curious what you thought.”
She was on to something. He could see it in her eyes. But she wouldn’t get far. They never got far.
Your dad saw it coming. I can still see the look on his face as I sent one right into his eye.
“Honestly?” he said, taking a sip of his scotch and lifting it. “I do my best not to think about it. You’d be better off if you did the same.”
“I’m a cop, just like my dad,” she said, quickly standing. She walked to the door and turned around. “I can’t not think about it.”
“Well, maybe you can bring our fathers’ killer to justice,” he said, raising his glass as if in a toast.
It was as easy as that, he thought smugly. Boom and my dad was history. And boom, your father was—
“I think I’ve already caught the killer,” she said, giving him a little smile that gave him pause. She opened the door and looked over her shoulder. “And I’m pretty sure I can prove it too.”
“You are the best hide-and-go-seek player I’ve ever seen,” Andy said. He was sitting in the Cochrans’ backyard on a white plastic lawn chair, part of a cheap patio set whose umbrella had a dent in it about halfway up its pole. Mrs. Cochran came through the back fence and was carrying the two pizza boxes that had just arrived.
Marjo two-handed a Styrofoam cup of water and took a sip. He couldn’t believe how big it looked as she held it, even though her little hands appeared to be even more swollen than the last time he’d seen her. She put the cup down and picked up his iPod again. Even though it was dead, for some reason the kid was having fun with it.
“What was my best hiding spot?” she asked in that tiny voice of hers. The whites of her eyes still looked funny and he guessed her weight at no more than forty pounds. A big p
art of Andy wished she could toss down half the pizza and put some meat on those tiny bones.
“The duffel bag,” Andy said.
“I knew it!” Marjo said.
The Cochrans lived at the end of a cul-de-sac, and all of the houses on the street were three-bedroom brick ranches with basements. Chelsea and Marjo had agreed to hide on the main floor, which Andy thought smelled like a peppermint potpourri farm, and there were only so many places they could be. Andy had found Chelsea in less than a minute. She was hiding in the bathtub behind the shower curtain, and when he found her, she guaranteed Andy that he had no chance of finding Marjo.
She was right.
He looked for a good fifteen minutes, and when he’d finally given up, he was standing right next to Marjo in Chelsea’s bedroom. She was laughing and he could hear her, but it drove him crazy that he couldn’t see her. A little duffel bag on the floor started moving. Not the big kind, but a small one like the type you would take to gym class. He couldn’t believe she was in it and still couldn’t figure out how in the world she’d gotten in at all. If she ever got better, she could become a contortionist and try out for the circus.
“You guys want to eat inside or outside?” Mr. Cochran asked.
“Want to go inside?” Chelsea asked Andy. “It’s kind of warm out here still.”
“Whatever Marjo wants to do,” Andy said. He looked at Marjo, whose eyes were closed. She had the iPod earbuds in and was smiling.
“You have a funny name,” she said.
Andy stilled and stared at the little girl, then again at the dead iPod as she handed it to him. “What do you mean by that?”
“Let’s go inside,” Chelsea said, nudging Andy on his shoulder. “And don’t worry, I’ll say grace.”
“Yeah,” Marjo said, giggling again. “When Daddy asked Andrew Todd to say grace at Mack’s restaurant, he didn’t want to.”
Andy’s heart raced and he quickly lifted an earbud to his ear.
He heard nothing and was disappointed. No music, no words. But . . .
He put his hand on Marjo’s shoulder. “Hey, did you hear something from that iPod? How did you know my middle name?”