“Did it?” Shelly asked.
“I don’t know. That was four weeks ago.”
“Other challenges?” Quincy asked.
“Telly had a hard time avoiding trouble. Push him, he pushes back. And given his history and what a lot of kids think they know about him . . . Transitioning between classes, another student might say something in the halls, maybe bump against Telly’s shoulder, and next thing you know, rumble in the jungle time. In May, I suggested Telly wear earbuds between classes, focus on his music and keeping himself to himself. That seemed to help. Of course, by then, Telly was already failing his junior year, meaning he’s spent the past two months in summer school. For Telly, school equals stress.”
“Priming the pump,” Quincy murmured.
“Exactly.”
“Did he like his foster parents?” Shelly asked.
Sanchez shrugged. “He seemed to tolerate them, which for Telly is probably close enough. For the record, I recommended the Duvalls for him, contacted Telly’s caseworker myself. In the foster system, everyone has their niche, from the families that are in it for the twenty bucks a day; to people who take in short-term placements, wanting to feel they’re providing a safe haven before a kid journeys on to his or her forever home; to the foster-to-adopt families who are looking to offer permanency. Frank and Sandra Duvall were the tail end of the spectrum. They wanted an older kid and were looking to focus on mentoring. For example, a teenager like Telly is too old to be thinking family anymore. On the other hand, he needs support. He’s one year from aging out of the system and being on his own. How does he find lodging? A first job? Open a checking account, pay his bills? I work with my charges on some of these issues as well. But it’s the next steps in life that often trip kids up. Turning eighteen is challenging for anyone. If you’re a foster, it’s particularly rough.”
“We saw some pictures on Sandra Duvall’s Facebook page,” Shelly said. “Appeared Frank was taking Telly shooting. Were you aware?”
“Frank talked to me before he took Telly for his first lesson. Frank believed shooting could help teach Telly how to focus. Hitting a target requires discipline and concentration. And, if the kid is any good, it can improve confidence as well, another one of Telly’s challenges. At least that was the spiel Frank gave me.”
“Did Telly talk about it?” Quincy asked.
“No. Never.”
“Was he a good shot?” Shelly pressed.
“I have no idea.”
“And Sandra?” Quincy asked. “What did Telly think of his foster mom?”
“He complimented her cooking once.”
“Did he talk about his past? About what happened with his parents?”
“No.”
“Did you bring it up?”
“Yes and no. We danced around the topic. Technically speaking, no charges were filed, meaning there’s no official paperwork attached to Telly’s name regarding his parents’ deaths. Having said that, I talked to a couple of the officers involved, wanting to learn for myself what had happened. And of course there’s the rumor mill. Kids at the high school even made up a jingle: Telly Nash, armed with a bat, slugged his mother out of the park, then whacked his father till all went dark. . . . Like I said, earbuds for navigating the school halls were a good thing for Telly.”
“But he wouldn’t talk about it?” Quincy asked.
“No. And when I tried to press . . . His face would just go blank. I’m not sure I can do the look justice. Just, lights on, nobody home.”
Quincy leaned forward. “And his sister? Did he ever mention Sharlah?”
For the first time, Sanchez hesitated. “Telly, no. But Frank Duvall. Five months ago? March sometime. He called me. He wanted to know if I had any information on Sharlah.”
“Did you?”
“No. I’m a probation officer, not a family counselor.”
Quincy peered at her intently. “Why did he ask that question? What did Frank want to know?”
“Frank had it in his head that Telly couldn’t let go of what happened with his birth family. Killing your own parents, even if your father is allegedly chasing you around with a knife, is heavy stuff. Add to that breaking his sister’s arm as part of Telly’s rampage . . . Frank thought if Telly could see, or at least know, his sister was okay, that might help him move on. Make some kind of peace with what happened. Which Frank felt had to happen if Telly was ever truly going to move forward.”
“I want to see the photos,” Quincy said. His gaze went to Shelly, his words a statement, not a request.
The sheriff sighed, moving over to one of the laptops to work the keyboard. “They’re still processing the phone, but Deputy Mitchell copied the images for me. There’s half a dozen of them, taken five days ago to judge by the dates on the files.”
True to Rainie’s description, the first five photos were taken in front of the county library. Sharlah appeared to be walking across the parking lot, Luka at her side, Rainie trailing behind. Sanchez peered over his shoulder, looking at the photos for herself.
“Telly spend much time at the library?” Quincy asked.
“I don’t know that I’ve ever asked him that question. But he’s a reader. Generally has some dog-eared paperback in his backpack. Tom Clancy. Brad Taylor. Military thrillers.”
Could it be that simple? Five days ago, Telly had spotted his long-lost sister at the local library. And then . . .
Based on how happy she looked with her dog, decided to shoot up the entire town, starting with his own foster parents? Quincy shook his head. He didn’t like this. There were pieces they were not seeing. Still too much about Telly, the shootings, that they didn’t know.
The final photo filled the screen. Except this wasn’t Sharlah standing outside the library anymore. This was Sharlah sitting on a front porch in one of two matching Adirondack rocking chairs. Her front porch.
Quincy’s house.
“When was this taken?” he asked sharply.
Shelly’s voice was steady. “Same afternoon.”
“He followed Rainie and Sharlah home from the library.”
“That’s my guess.”
“Why?” He whirled on Sanchez now, who’d had the good sense to retreat to her chair. “Why these photos? Why this sudden interest in his younger sister, who, according to you, he’d never even mentioned before?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Frank Duvall look up my daughter? Did he pursue the matter?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Frank—”
The probation officer’s voice broke off. Because they couldn’t ask Frank. Telly had already shot and killed him first thing this morning.
“Telly Ray Nash is an angry kid,” Shelly stated, standing between the two of them, trying to get the conversation back on track.
Sanchez pulled her gaze from Quincy, returned her attention to the sheriff instead. “You want me to put Telly in a box: Good or bad. Black or white.”
“He killed four people this morning. That makes him bad enough in my book.”
“I get that, Sheriff. And given that I personally knew Frank and Sandra, that I recommended they take this boy . . .” Sanchez’s voice trembled, and for the first time Quincy heard the emotions she’d obviously been working hard to keep at bay.
“I can’t box up Telly for you,” the PO continued after a moment. “Yes, he’s impulsive and explosive and troubled and pissed off. He’s also a seventeen-year-old boy trying to come to terms with a violent childhood while simultaneously being told he only has a handful of months to figure out the rest of his life. Would I want to be walking in his shoes? Not at all.
“Telly trying is not a bad kid. The Telly who took his melatonin and used his earbuds between classes, that Telly was hoping to figure things out. He worked with me. Maybe even listened to Frank. Having said
that . . .” Sanchez’s voice trailed off. She took another steadying breath. “Telly’s stressed. His past, his future, his present time at summer school. Take your pick. Telly is a teenager under a tremendous amount of pressure, and historically speaking, Telly under pressure . . .”
“Explodes,” Quincy provided.
“Yeah. And then he becomes the kind of person capable of most anything.”
“Including taking a baseball bat to his baby sister?”
“Exactly.”
Sanchez fell silent. Quincy wasn’t sure he had much more to say himself. He went back to staring at the picture of his daughter, shot on their own front porch, with none of them the wiser.
How had the boy gotten that close? And why now? What the hell did Telly want from his sister?
The radio clipped to Shelly’s uniform crackled suddenly to life. The call came in that much louder, given the tight stillness of incident command.
“Shots fired, shots fired! Team Alpha to base. Requesting immediate backup. Repeat, shots fired!”
Chapter 16
CAL NOONAN LIKED TREES. He admired their towering beauty, appreciated their deep shade, and on a day like this one, respected them as strategic cover. When tracking an armed fugitive, it never hurt to have as many trees as possible between you and him.
Which made their approach to the first house that much more nerve-wracking. The house was a small white bungalow, set way back on a dirt drive. The yard had been cleared decades if not generations ago, leaving a vast expanse of real estate between Cal’s tracking team and the front door. The house wasn’t even what interested Cal the most. He’d found a shoe impression leaving the road and heading toward the left side of the property, where Cal could just make out a ramshackle shed. The kind of building where the homeowner might have a rusted-out truck, an old tractor, or, around these parts, a four-wheeler.
If Cal were a seventeen-year-old on the run, he’d want a four-wheeler.
Antonio took up the lead position. Cal behind him, then Nonie, with Jesse bringing up the rear. They walked upright, keeping themselves tucked as close to the shade of the side bramble as possible. Slow and steady approach. Rifles in hand. Eyes on anything that moved.
Except for Cal, who was looking around Antonio for any fresh disturbances in the ground ahead.
Meaning he never saw the first shot coming. One second, he was studying a particularly compressed patch of grass, the next . . .
Rifle crack. Loud and clear.
Antonio swore. Cal and Nonie dropped where they stood. Then Jesse was belly-crawling past both of them, rifle forward, saying, “Are you hurt, are you hurt? What did you see?”
Antonio was already on the radio calling for backup.
Cal promised himself if he ever got out of this, he was sticking to making cheese for the rest of his life.
Second crack. From the direction of the house, Cal determined this time. Then, just as the third shot exploded the bushes above his head, he saw the glint of a rifle, positioned in an upstairs window.
“This is the police. Cease fire!” Antonio boomed from a low crouch, while signaling Jesse with a series of hand gestures. The second SWAT team member nodded, then rolled three times quick, taking up position behind a rhododendron.
“This is private property!” an older, raspy voice called out. “You leave my house alone. Nothing to see. Nothing to steal. Now off with you.”
“Sir! This is the police. We are in pursuit of an armed fugitive. Lay down your rifle. Cease fire!”
“Only way you’re getting my gun is to pry it out of my cold, dead hands!” the homeowner yelled back.
Cal lowered his head. He was going to die because of an old man’s paranoia. Wouldn’t that just figure.
“Sir,” Cal called out, making his own attempt. Antonio cast him a grim look. “We are in pursuit of a seventeen-year-old male. He shot and killed a store clerk and a customer at the EZ Gas about a mile back. You might have seen it on the news.”
“Someone shot up the EZ Gas?”
“Yes, sir. My job is to track that someone. We have reason to believe he passed through your property.”
“You mean that kid who was in my shed? Don’t worry, I shot at him, too. Hoodlum. Thinking he can just take whatever he wants.”
“Is the kid still in the shed? This is important. The boy is heavily armed and considered dangerous.”
“Nah. Couple of shots from my rifle and he took off through the side shrubs. Probably breaking into my neighbor’s house now, not that she has anything good.”
“Sir, I’m going to stand up. Please don’t shoot me. In my real life, I’m the head cheese maker at the factory, so you know, if you ever want to eat cheese again . . .” Very carefully, Cal got one leg beneath him, then the other. He stood, Antonio aiming his rifle at the second-story window as if to cover him.
Cal held up both hands. “We need to find this shooter, sir. Before he hurts anyone else. You said he was at your shed.”
“Yeah. Till I targeted his backside with a little lead.”
“Did you hit him?”
“Nah. Aimed way over his head. Just like I did with you.” The man’s voice was calming down. Less confrontational. More conversational.
“We need to search your shed. Check for evidence. Pick up the kid’s trail. It’s important.”
“Who’d he shoot at the EZ Gas?”
“Um, female cashier. Local girl—”
“Erin? He killed Erin? I’ll be . . . Son of a bitch, shoulda shot him when I had the chance. All right. I’m coming on down. I’ll meet you at the shed.”
The rifle withdrew from the window. Crouched in front of Cal, Antonio shook his head, rising much more slowly to his feet. “Some people. Some days . . .”
“Yeah,” Cal agreed. “And this day’s just beginning.”
Cal and Nonie approached the shed first, Antonio and Jesse taking up position between the trackers and the front door of the trigger-happy homeowner. They held their rifles loosely before them, still at the ready, but making some show of faith.
Cal identified two more foot depressions in softer areas of the yard, then they were at the shed.
About the size of a single-car garage, the shed was a dusty, broken-down affair. The side door yawned open enough to reveal the black, grimy interior. Both side windows were missing panes of glass. The hot August sun beat through, showing whorls of dust where the space had been recently disturbed.
A creak from the house behind him. Cal turned to see an older gentleman, jeans, plain white T-shirt, red suspenders, come huffing down the front stairs. At least the homeowner had left behind his weapon.
“Jack,” the man declared, crossing to their little group. “Jack George. This here’s my property. That’s my shed. Now, what do you need to see to find the little bastard?”
At Cal’s request, Mr. George allowed them to open the front bay, allowing in more light. Now Cal could see even more disturbances in the dust. Fresh marks on a wide worktable where their suspect had felt his way along, maybe looking for equipment that might be useful, or even another weapon.
The shed held an assortment of lawn tools and power tools, plus a riding lawn mower, relatively new and smelling of fresh-cut grass. The real item of interest was in the back: a four-wheeler, covered in another layer of cobwebs, both tires flat.
“I purchased it for the grandkids,” Mr. George provided. “Thought they’d like zipping around the property. But they haven’t been around in a bit. The thing needs some air in the tires clearly, probably fresh fuel mix, but it’ll run. If I hadn’t seen that hoodlum skulking around outside, he would’ve stolen it, no doubt.”
Cal nodded. He could make out a clear outline of footprints next to the four-wheeler, where their target had stood, considering his options. Given that the recreational vehicle was parked in the shadows at the rea
r of the shed, out of sight of the windows, Cal already doubted Mr. George’s assessment of things.
Their suspect had made it into the shed. Most likely, the flat tires and pitted gas tank had convinced the teenager to give up on the four-wheeler. At which point, according to the footprints on the dusty floor, he’d left the shed via the side door. Where Mr. George had finally spotted the intruder and opened fire—catching the boy exiting the building, not entering it.
Now, once shots had been fired . . .
Cal left the shed, resumed studying the grass. The suspect appeared to have spun around the back of the shed. Deeper prints, farther apart, indicating the target was running, no doubt with his head ducked low, trying to avoid gunfire.
On the other side of the shed, he discovered two fainter impressions side by side. The target pausing, catching his breath, and then determining his best route of escape.
Sure enough, straight across from the back of the shed was a thick hedge, with a narrow break where one of the bushes had died and never been replaced. Not the easiest squeeze for Cal or his SWAT team commandos, but for a wiry seventeen-year-old boy . . .
Cal approached closer, inspecting the break in the shrubs. He identified several broken twigs, green wood still showing, and recently shed leaves. He indicated for his team to fall back for a moment, while he returned his attention to Mr. George.
“Your neighbor on the other side, she like rifles as much as you do?”
“Aurora? Nah. I don’t think she’s even home. One of her kids showed up the other day, packed her off to Portland for a visit. She doesn’t have AC in her house, and Aurora’s not one for the heat.”
“So her home could very well be empty?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cal looked at Antonio.
“What time did you see the suspect?” Antonio asked Mr. George.
“Let’s see. Was watching the morning news. So a good five, six hours ago?”
Cal nodded. Given the EZ Gas shooting happened at eight A.M. and it was now nearly two, they already knew Telly Ray Nash had a good head start. But to judge by the trail, he was also having to make decisions as he went. Such as turning right toward the residential area, then creeping up on the first house and inspecting his options in the shed before having to flee the premises.