The body lay as it had fallen, arms outflung, eyes staring
into the wide Montana sky fabled in story and song. Except
for the hole in the center of his forehead the expression
on the victim's face was one familiar to all who knew him,
an arrogant smirk that held no traces of fear or surprise.
Clearly, Jason Holbrook had not expected to die.
Not today, anyway, and for sure not like this, thought
Roan Harley, duly elected sheriff of Hart County. Gunned
down in his own driveway on a cool spring day like a mean
and dangerous dog, which, come to think of it — and the
sheriff knew he wasn't alone in this opinion — described
the victim pretty well.
"Tom," he said gently to the deputy breathing heavily over
his right shoulder, "if you're gonna puke, I'd sure
appreciate it if you'd find someplace away from the crime
scene."
"No, I'm good," Deputy Tom Daggett said, a little too
quickly and breathlessly for the declaration to be
entirely reassuring. He glanced over at Roan, blushing
right up to the band of his Stetson. "It's just…I've never
seen anybody shot dead before. Not like this. It's…
different, you know?" There was an audible swallow.
Roan did know. To be truthful, he hadn't seen anybody shot
dead before either, except for crime-scene photos in
forensics classes he'd taken in college and a few
refresher courses after getting elected sheriff. And his
deputy had it right — all the car wrecks, hunting
accidents and bar fights in the world didn't do much to
prepare a man for violent cold-blooded murder.
"In that case," he said to Deputy Daggett, "hunker on down
here. Tell me what you see."
Frowning earnestly, the younger man squatted on his heels
beside the body. "Okay, uh…you got two —" he coughed self-
consciously. "I mean, the victim appears to have been shot
twice — once in the head, and then here, in the chest.
Right in the heart, looks like. From the, uh, condition of
the, uh…the size of the exit wound in the back of the head…
maybe a .38?"
"More likely a .45," the sheriff said, nodding his
approval.
"Okay, so what do you think happened here, Tom?"
The deputy tilted the brim of his Stetson back and looked
around, squinting in the bright morning sunshine. "I don't
know, seems pretty straightforward. Looks like the shooter
was waiting for him when he came home. Ol' Jase gets out
of his truck, starts for the house, and bam." He shook his
head, his enthusiasm returning with his confidence, now he
was over the worst of it. "The guy must have been right
there in front of him — shot him in the chest first, then
made good and sure with the head shot. Doubt Jase even saw
it comin'."
Roan shook his head. "Oh, he saw it, all right. Just
didn't believe it. And the head shot was first." He stood
up and waited for the deputy to do the same. "Look here —
see this?" He pointed to some spatters on the door of the
brand-new white Chevy truck parked just beyond the
body. "That's brain matter. So he was standing up when the
bullet went through his skull.
Then it went through the driver's-side window, right here,
see? Slug's probably still in there, inside the cab. We're
gonna want to find that." He glanced over at Deputy
Daggett, who was looking a little green around the gills
again, but controlling it manfully. "I'm thinking the
shooter stood in front of him, face-to-face, like this —"
he demonstrated, arm outstretched " — and shot him. From
about three feet away."
The deputy looked doubtful. "He'd have to be a helluva
shot, wouldn't he, to drill him dead center in the
forehead like that with a high-caliber handgun?"
"Yeah, or a lucky one." With a cool head and a steady
hand. Roan turned back to the body on the ground, his jaw
tightening as he gazed down at what was left of Jason
Edward Holbrook. Considering everything, he wondered why
he wasn't taking this more personally. He ought to feel
something for the death of the man who was very likely his
half-brother.
But, except for a profound sense of outrage and insult
that such a thing could have happened in his jurisdiction,
on his watch, he didn't feel a thing. Not a damn thing.
"Then," he went on grimly, "the shooter stood over him and
fired a second shot into his heart at point-blank range —
see this here? That's powder residue. Also, considering
the back of the victim's skull was blown off, the shooter
had to know he was already stone-dead, but he put that
second shot in him anyway."
The deputy gave a low whistle. "Takes a whole lotta mad to
do something like that."
Again Roan shook his head. "Not mad," he corrected. "Hate.
This wasn't any crime of passion, not in the usual sense
of that word. Whoever did this hated Jason's guts, pure
and simple."
"Well," Tom said, obviously pretty well recovered now from
his former queasiness and sounding downright
cheerful, "that's not gonna narrow it down much." Then,
belatedly recalling the unwritten rule against speaking
ill of the dead, he threw Roan an abashed look and,
blushing again, muttered an apology.
An unfortunate characteristic for a deputy sheriff, that
blush, Roan thought. For the kid's sake, he hoped he'd
grow out of it eventually — maybe by the time he started
shaving regularly.
Tom Daggett was right, though, about there being no dearth
of people who might have entertained the notion of taking
a shot at Jason Holbrook, one time or another. But for
some reason, nothing he could put a finger on, just a gut
feeling, Roan didn't think this was going to be some
jealous husband or boyfriend. Something about the killing…
facing him like that…and then that second shot at point-
blank range…this was payback, was what it was. Vengeance.
And more than that: Whoever had meted it out to Jason
Holbrook had wanted him to know beyond any shadow of a
doubt who was killing him and what he was dying for.
Holding off the shiver that wanted to run down his spine,
Sheriff Harley took his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket
and slipped them on, then let his gaze sweep the area,
taking in the long graveled driveway that slanted down
through the pine trees from the paved road to the huge two-
story log house Jason's dad had had built against the
mountainside in the style of a Swiss chalet. He turned
back to Daggett. "No sign of a weapon?"
Tom shook his head. "Didn't see one in the immediate
vicinity. Thought I oughta wait for you before I started
looking."
"Good call. Stay away from the truck, too. And the body,
it goes without saying — at least until the coroner gets
here. Where's the school-bus driver that called it in?"
"She had a load of kids to deliver. I told her somebody'd
be over there at the school later on to get her statement.
Uh…Sheriff?" Roan nodded for him to proceed, and Daggett
did, looking uncomfortable. "You planning on calling in
the state guys on this?"
"Already did," Roan said. "They're on their way."
Then for a while he and the deputy just stood there,
neither of them saying anything, both of them trying not
to look at the body of Jason Holbrook cooling in a puddle
of his blood, staring up at the blue Montana sky. It was a
bright, beautiful spring morning, but Roan felt like a big
black cloud was parked right over his head, the heaviness
of it pressing down on him and the first rumblings of
thunder already growling in the distance.
"Sheriff?" Tom looked over at him, uneasy again, thumbs in
his hip pockets, kind of scuffing at the dirt with the toe
of his boot. "You gonna break the news to the senator?"
Reflexively, Roan folded his arms on his chest. He'd been
giving that some thought himself. "That's not something
you want to hear over the phone," he said, shaking off
guilt, wondering if he was being a little too eager to
pass the buck. Talking to Senator Holbrook wasn't
something he enjoyed doing even at the best of times.
Which these sure as hell weren't. "I'll call the
Washington PD, get them to send somebody to tell him in
person."
Tom let out a breath like a tire going flat as he took off
his hat and ran a hand back over his short blond
hair. "Well, hell. No matter how he finds out, when he
does, I expect the you-know-what's goin' to hit the fan."
Roan favored his deputy with a lopsided grin. "I expect
you're right about that. Be nice if we had a suspect in
hand by the time it does, don't you think? You got any
bright ideas where to start looking for one?"
Trying not to look thrilled to be asked, Tom hooked his
thumbs in his belt while he gave it some thought. Then he
puffed out his chest and squinted at the pine-studded
horizon. "I'm thinkin' Buster's Last Stand — you know,
over on the high-way? — might be a good place to start.
That's where Jase normally spends…uh, spent his evenings.
Somebody in there might know if he ticked off anybody in
particular last night. Worse than usual, I mean."
Roan clapped him on the back. "Good call. Probably too
early right now — best to wait for the evening crowd to
assemble before we hit there though." He nodded toward the
highway where a van had just turned off onto the lane and
was barreling toward them at highway speed, crunching
gravel and sending up a cloud of dust. "Here's the
coroner. I'm gonna want you to stay and keep an eye on
things for me, Tom. Pick up all the info you can from Doc
Salazar and the major-case detectives when they get here,
and don't let that bunch from Billings intimidate you, you
hear? I want a full report — don't leave out any details.
Once everything's squared away here, get on over to the
school and get the bus driver's statement." He heaved in a
breath and squared his shoulders. "Meanwhile, I'll head
back to the shop and get the ball rolling on notifying
next of kin. After that…"
Well, he didn't like to think what his life was going to
be like after that and for the foreseeable future, but he
figured he ought to do what he could to prepare for the
inevitable flood of media and law-enforcement out-of-
towners. He imagined it was going to be a while before
Hartsville settled back down to its quiet and peaceful
small-town ways.
One thing, Roan thought as he went to greet the county's
coroner and deputy medical examiner, he sure didn't envy
the person whose unhappy duty it was going to be to inform
Montana's senior senator of the violent death of his only
son.
His only acknowledged son, anyway.
Fridays were always busy at Queenie's "We Pamper You Like
Royalty" Beauty Salon and Boutique. Tucked between Betty's
Art Gallery and Framing and the law offices of Andrews &
Klein on Second Street, half a block off Main and just a
block down from the courthouse, it was a handy place for
any of the downtown crowd with interesting plans for the
weekend to drop in on their lunch hour for a wash and set.
Its new proprietor, Mary Owen, generally stayed late on
Fridays to accommodate the high-school girls gussying up
for date night. And, of course, Miss Ada Major, the clerk
of the court, who'd had a standing five o'clock Friday-
evening appointment for a wash and set since roughly the
Reagan administration.
Honoring Miss Ada's Friday five o'clock was, in fact, one
of the conditions Queenie Schultz, the shop's former
owner, had made Mary agree to when she'd sold the business
to her six months ago — that, and a promise to do up Miss
Ada's hair real nice for her funeral, in the event the
lady ever did decide to depart this mortal coil. To be
truthful, that second condition had made Mary shudder a
bit, and of course Queenie, being down in Phoenix,
Arizona, enjoying the heat and sunshine, probably wasn't
ever going to know whether Mary actually stuck to that
part of the bargain or not. But it wasn't Mary's nature to
break a promise, and besides, at the rate Miss Ada was
going, it didn't look like the issue was going to come up
any time soon.
If there was anything Mary Owen had learned in her thirty-
seven years it was that life was full of surprises, so
there wasn't much point in looking too far ahead or
worrying about things that hadn't happened yet. She knew
from hard experience how things could change in the blink
of an eye.
"How are you doing today, Miss Ada?" Mary asked as she
settled the tall, dignified lady into the chair and gently
snapped a drape around her sinewy neck.
"Why, just fine, dear, thank you for asking." The circles
of rose-pink blush on Miss Ada's cheeks crinkled with her
smile. Keen hazel eyes highlighted in tissue-papery cobalt
blue met Mary's in the mirror — then went wide with
horrified sympathy.
"Well, my goodness me, what on earth did you do, hon?"
Mary's teeth scraped over the tender bulge on her lower
lip — a reflex she couldn't help — but her voice was
smooth as she replied, "Oh, it's nothing, just me being
stupid and clumsy. I forgot to leave the porch light on
last night, and I tripped going up the front steps in the
dark. Are we doing color today, Miss Ada?"
Miss Ada interrupted her little gasps and cries of
commiseration and glanced at her own reflection in the
mirror just long enough to murmur, "No, no, dear, I think
another week, don't you?" Her gaze flew upward past her
determinedly auburn curls to home in once more on the
vivid marks on Mary's face. "Did you put some ice on those
bruises? And I know you don't wear makeup, but you know, a
little dab of pancake and some face powder would do
wonders."
"Oh, like I said, it's nothing, really," Mary said
cheerfully as she tilted the chair back and settled Miss
Ada's neck on the lip of the wash basin. "Just a little
embarrassing. So…have you been having a good week?
Anything exciting going on over at the courthouse?"
Keeping her blue lids firmly closed, Miss Ada gave a hoot
of laughter. "Oh, well, today there's nobody talking about
anything but what happened to Clifford Holbrook's boy. You
heard about that, I suppose?" She sighed heavily, then
went on without waiting for Mary's answer, her forehead
wrinkling in distress. "It is a shame — a terrible thing.
My heart just goes out to Clifford. He always was a good
boy — I was tempted to vote for him in the last election,
even if he is a Republican — but that son of his — that
Jason…it's hard to know, isn't it, how a child from such a
nice family can turn out so wrong?"
"Yes, ma'am." Mary murmured the all-purpose response she'd
learned in a former life from a dear Southern friend,
warming her fingers in the stream of water and ignoring
the deeper chill inside her. "How's that, Miss Ada? Is
that gonna be too hot?"