The Sheriff of Heartbreak County

Chapter 6

The Hart County courthouse was a much grander edifice than the size of the town and county it served would seem to warrant, having been built during Hartsville’s boomtown days when the mines were still going strong. A massive and sturdy granite block with two-story concrete pillars flanking the arched front portico, it dwarfed all the other buildings in the downtown area. The citizens of Hart County were enormously proud of it.

The first floor housed all the offices of county government except for the sheriff’s station and detention center, and emergency services. The courtroom, jury rooms and judge’s chambers were all on the second floor, reached either by a grand curving staircase or the stuffy creaking elevator that had been put in after the Citizens with Disabilities Act went into effect. In contrast to the rest of the building the courtroom itself was almost stark, having been renovated during an era when simplicity was in vogue, with floors, paneling, judge’s bench, jury box, witness stand and spectators’ pews all done in some pale golden-brown wood, unembellished and naturally finished. It reminded Roan of the inside of a church, one of the more austere Protestant varieties. Which was maybe why he always felt an impulse to whisper when he was in it.

It obviously didn’t have that effect on Senator Holbrook, who hadn’t stopped fuming and cussing like a bullwhacker since the moment the judge brought his gavel down. He kept it up while he and Roan waited for the other spectators to file out of the courtroom, and was still going at it as they made their way down the curving staircase together.

“What the hell was the judge thinking, granting that woman bail?” Holbrook’s hoarse attempt at a whisper echoed down the courthouse’s wide ground-floor corridor, causing heads to turn.

Roan, walking beside him, felt the tension and energy pulsing through the man’s body, and it reminded him of the geysers down in Yellowstone, the way they’d hiss and fume and rumble just before they blew.

“You might want to keep your voice down,” he said mildly, nodding toward the crowd of reporters and photographers gathered on the courthouse steps just outside the double glass doors. The senator’s heated indictment of the circuit court judge had included some adjectives of the type usually bleeped by the media, just clumsily enough so it was impossible to mistake the true meaning. Roan imagined getting caught using language like that wouldn’t do a politician’s public image much good.

Holbrook evidently didn’t share Roan’s concerns, because his comment on the media’s presence in Hartsville was more of the same-though he did deliver it with slightly lowered volume. At the bottom of the stairs he made an abrupt left turn and began to pace furiously back down the corridor away from the entrance, dragging a distraught hand through his hair.

“My God, they’re like a flock of turkey buzzards, aren’t they? Like they’re waiting for your horse to die. Where do they come from? How do they get wind of things like this so fast?”

Roan considered a man who made his living in national politics ought to be used to dealing with the news media, but when he made a comment to that effect, the senator waved it angrily aside.

“That’s politics. This is personal. There’s a line there, and if those vultures can’t see it they sure as hell ought to.”

From what Roan knew of the media, he thought the line between personal and politics had gotten blurred a long time ago, but he knew better than to say so.

Instead, leaning one elbow on the newelpost at the bottom of the staircase and fiddling with his Stetson in an easygoing way, he drawled, “They’re just doing their job. Can’t fault ’em for being good at it. Like you can’t fault Harry Klein for being good at his. All he did was point out the reasons why his client ought to be granted bail, namely, no criminal record, no previous history of violent behavior, local business woman…” He paused when the senator frowned at him-not that he was surprised by the look; he hadn’t tried all that hard to tone down the sarcasm. He met the steely stare with one of his own. “The judge was doing his job when he granted it.”

Holbrook made an impatient gesture and resumed his pacing. “I don’t give a damn about her previous history. That woman shot my son. If she gets away-”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Roan said evenly. The adult part of him was controlling his temper and hanging on to his patience for the sake of another man’s grief, but somewhere deep down inside him that little boy he liked to pretend wasn’t there was still nursing the secret hurt of being denied the acknowledgment and approval of his father. Pitiful, he knew, but not much he could do about it. “For one thing, Judge Conner set the bail high enough I doubt she’ll be able to make it, at least not right away. By the time she does we should have some results back from the crime lab. With physical evidence to back us up we might be able to get the judge to reconsider.”

Holbrook scrubbed a hand over his face, and Roan could see him making an effort to rein himself in. “What about this protected witness thing? Any chance they might whisk her away again, right out from under our noses?”

“Well, that might be what she was hoping for when she called ’em,” Roan said with a dark half smile. “If she was, she’s gonna be disappointed. The U.S. Marshal’s Office doesn’t intervene for protected witnesses in local criminal matters. They’ll cooperate with us on this-if they ever find her case worker and her file.”

“Doesn’t mean she won’t try to disappear on her own,” the senator growled.

“If she does,” Roan said, still being patient, “we’re going to be there to stop her. But she’s going to have to come up with that bail money first, and I don’t think-” He broke off because it was obvious Holbrook wasn’t listening to him. The man was staring past him toward the courthouse doors like a wolf who’d just spotted a rabbit, and Roan could almost see the fur on the back of his neck bristling.

“What the hell? Isn’t that-”

Roan pivoted in time to watch his murder suspect, wearing the dowdy blue-denim skirt and faded pink blouse she’d had on in court earlier, whisk through the double glass doors and disappear into the maw of the hungry media mob waiting outside.

“That’s her-that’s Owen. How the hell-” Sputtering, Holbrook turned to glare at Roan. “What the hell just happened?”

“Looks like she made bail after all,” Roan muttered grimly. Seeing the woman-even that brief glimpse-had given him one helluva jolt, and set his heart beating in a way he couldn’t account for, though he sure did try. Adrenaline, he told himself. The gut instinct to give chase when somebody’s running. And she was running. He knew it with a certainty that clutched at his belly and shivered through every muscle and nerve in his body.

“Evidently,” he said in a grating voice, “the woman has resources we didn’t know about. Or somebody put it up for her.”

“Put it up for her?” The senator looked around him in a half-bewildered, half-furious kind of way. “Goddammit, who’d do a thing like that?”

“I did, Clifford, and I would appreciate it if you would not swear in this courthouse, please.”

At the sound of that firm and rasping voice, Holbrook jerked and spun around like a man who’d just taken a haymaker punch to the chin. Roan pretty much did too, and he wondered if it was possible a United States Senator could be feeling the same way he was right then-like a tardy schoolboy caught in the hallway after the bell had rung. Together, both open-mouthed and speechless, they watched Ada Major, the court clerk, march toward them with her pocketbook under one arm, corseted and painted to within an inch of her life.

Roan was the first to find his voice. “Miss Ada,” he said, nodding a greeting.

“Sheriff,” said Miss Ada, returning the nod with her customary dignity. She turned back to the senator and clamped one bony blue-veined hand over his. “Clifford, I want you to know how sorry I am about your boy. Truly sorry. I know the sheriff here is going to find out who did this awful thing-” she paused to fix Roan with a tight-lipped glare “-even if he has gotten off to an unfortunate start. Arresting Mary Owen…” She tsked and gave her head a shake, making her starched auburn curls bob only slightly.

“Ada,” the senator said in a wondering croak, “why in the world did you put up that woman’s bail? You let my son’s killer just…walk out of here?”

The lady made a very unladylike noise. “Oh bosh. That girl never killed anyone. She certainly doesn’t belong in jail. Besides-” Miss Ada’s eyes twinkled; she gave her curls a girlish pat “-if Mary’s in jail, who’ll do my wash and set come Friday?”

“Miss Ada-”

“Roan.” The lady transferred her cool hard grip from the senator’s hand to Roan’s. “I’ve been working in this courthouse since before you were born-and you, Clifford, were a muddy-faced schoolboy. I’ve seen a good many criminals come and go. I like to think I’ve developed some instincts over the years, and they are telling me that girl is no criminal.”

“You don’t need to be a criminal to commit murder, Miss Ada,” Roan said, thinking about the conversation he’d had with Boyd just yesterday. “Sometimes you just have to be desperate.”

Miss Ada’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Ah, but this wasn’t a desperate kind of murder, was it? From all I hear, whoever shot Jason Holbrook did so with a good deal of malice aforethought. If you can find so much as an ounce of malice in Mary, I’ll eat my Aunt Fanny’s wig!”

Roan didn’t know what to say to that, so he just shook his head. The fact that in his heart he half agreed didn’t help his mood any.

“Well,” said Miss Ada briskly, “I’d best get back to work. Clifford, it’s nice to have you come visit. Though it’s a pity it took a death to bring you home. Sheriff…” With a curt nod for each of them, she went clicking on down the corridor.

“My God,” Holbrook said as he watched the lady disappear into the clerk of court’s office, “I tried my first case in that woman’s courtroom, fresh out of law school. She hasn’t changed a bit, has she?”

“Nope,” said Roan, “and not likely to. She’ll be wearing that blue eyeshadow and red hair when they put her in her coffin.” Since he didn’t think it would be a good idea for the father of his murder victim to see him grinning, he ducked his head and spent an extra second or two setting his hat in place.

It only took those moments for the little spell of amusement to pass and that powerful sense of urgency and exasperation grab hold of him again. Mary Owen might not be Miss Ada’s idea of a murder suspect, but at the moment she was the only one he had and he’d be damned if he was going to give her a chance to slip through his fingers.

He started for the doors, then paused and turned back, frowning. “Senator, can I get somebody to drive you home?”

“No, you go on.” Holbrook gave a gusty and resigned exhalation. “I think I’m going to stay here a bit…settle myself down some before I face all that.” He nodded toward the mob beyond the glass doors and glared fiercely at Roan, his face pinched and grim. “Go-just…whatever you do, don’t let that woman get away.”

Roan nodded and touched his hat brim with a forefinger. His step was rapid and purposeful as he strode down the corridor and pushed through the double doors, his narrowed eyes following the tall figure of Mary Owen as she pushed her way through the crowd of reporters and photographers…head down, one hand up in a desperate attempt to shield her face from the pitiless eyes of the television cameras.

The media horde had caught Mary unprepared. She hadn’t even thought about the possibility of-Oh God, television cameras!

But she should have known, she realized, now that it was too late. Here was the son of a national political figure murdered in the classic tradition of the Old West…a young female suspect and some lurid sexual innuendos thrown in-all the ingredients of a media circus.

If only she’d waited for her lawyer-maybe he could have shielded her, whisked her out of the courthouse another way. But after Miss Ada had paid her bail and she’d been told she was free to go, all she’d been able to think about was escape. Like an animal let loose from a trap, she’d bolted blindly, her only thought to run…as far as possible away from here!

But now it appeared she’d escaped from the trap only to stumble into the midst of a pack of ravening wolves. The heat from their bodies was suffocating as they crowded around her, pushing, jostling, grabbing, thrusting…their words, their questions, their shouts all running together in a chorus of hungry-sounding yips and howls, deafening to her ears and terrifying to her soul. Oh God-not now. Please not now-I hate remembering.

It was hot that day. The Florida humidity made my clothes stick to me, but I felt cold clear through to my bones, cold as I do right now. I trembled with the cold as the microphones stabbed at me and the lights from the television cameras blinded my eyes. The questions came from everywhere at once, a jumble of noise, but here and there one jumped out at me…

“Miss Lavigne, how does it feel to be the woman who brought down the biggest drug and arms cartel in the western hemisphere?”

“Mary! Mary Owen-did Jason Holbrook attack you?”

“Do you expect the DelRey family to seek revenge because of your testimony?”

“Miss Owen! Will you be pleading self-defense?”

“Are you afraid for your life, Miss Lavigne?”

I ducked my head and tried to hide my face with my hands then, too. And just when I felt the panic closing in, there were the marshals, one on each side of me, and their linked arms made a shield of safety across my back.

Panic. Oh God, please…

Then…miraculously, just as on that distant day, she felt a strong arm slip across her back, and a hard sinewy body come close against her side. Only one body, but it had the same solid strength. And, as on that day, it made her feel warm…and safe.

She knew at once who it was. Something in her, some instinct she didn’t wonder at or question, seemed to know his smell…clean clothes and leather…aftershave and peppermints. Before she could even look up at him, she heard the voice that was already familiar to her, the growly, easygoing drawl that carried the unmistakable ring of authority.

“Okay, folks…gonna ask you to step aside and let her pass. There’s nothing for you here. I believe Senator Holbrook is plannin’ on makin’ a statement, though, if you all would care to hang around for another minute or two. Now if you’ll excuse us…that’s it…move aside…thank you kindly…’ preciate it…”

And all the while, that strong arm across her back was guiding Mary through the gap in the crowd that seemed to open magically before her, and the shouting, demanding voices receded gradually, fading to a distant babble, like a flock of grackles moving away through a forest.

When she was able to breathe again, and speak without gasping, she looked up into the impassive face of her rescuer and murmured, “That was…kind of you.”

“No problem.” The sheriff’s voice was a softer growl now, pitched just for her, and light…almost cheerful. “I’d hate for you to get trampled on before you get your day in court.”

They were in the clear, hurrying along the walkway that meandered across the courthouse grounds between newly planted beds of snapdragons and sweet-smelling stocks. She was surprised at how cold it had become; it had been such a lovely warm spring day on Saturday, the day she’d been arrested. But while she’d been locked away the weather had changed, the way it can in Montana in the springtime, and today a mean little wind was swirling through the forests of satellite dishes that had sprouted from the sparse spring grass, bringing with it the smell of the snow that was already dusting the slopes of the Bitterroots.

“Thank you,” she said, gulping a breath. “I’ll be fine. I don’t think they’re going to follow me anymore, not right now. You really don’t need to come with me any farther.”

“Oh, I think I do,” the sheriff drawled. “You’re pretty shaky.”

She couldn’t argue with that-she was shaking, but only because she was cold, she told herself. The lawyer, Mr. Klein, hadn’t thought to bring her a sweater when he’d brought clothes for her to wear to the arraignment.

Arraignment. Another shudder rippled through her, and because the sheriff was so close to her, once again he couldn’t help but feel it. She’d been too panic-stricken to notice before, but her skin tingled oddly where he touched her-oddly, because it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. She had to remind herself this was the sheriff, the man who’d arrested her, the man who believed her capable of shooting someone in cold blood.

She could feel his eyes resting on her, their expression lost in the shadows beneath the brim of his hat. They don’t miss much, those eyes.

New panic seized her, a gut-level sense of danger that made her muscles clench and spasm with the overwhelming need to flee.

I’m in danger…got to run, got to hide, got to save myself…Must get away from him… How can I? Can’t make him suspicious… Oh God… I’ve got to get away!

And again…the same thoughts, same feelings, same panic…But a different time, different place, different images.

I remember…I’d gone looking for Diego. Something strange was happening or about to happen on the island, there had been so much activity and tension in the house all day, and a kind of indefinable electricity. At the same time I felt a heaviness in my spirit, as if a thunderstorm was brewing.

Because I couldn’t find Diego, I went looking for Anita, the housekeeper, to ask her if she knew if the family was planning a trip or a party or some such thing that would account for the unusual frenzy. She was from Diego’s native country and didn’t speak much English, but I would much rather go to her with my questions than one of the DelReys or their security guards. I was still, to tell the truth, a little afraid of them.

I went to the kitchen. Anita wasn’t there, but I heard voices, men’s voices, coming from the large storeroom off the kitchen. The storage room was a necessity since the estate was on an island and all food and supplies had to be brought in by boat or helicopter. Maybe, I thought, a new shipment of supplies had just arrived and the men were bringing them in. The door was open and the light was on, but I couldn’t see who was inside. Anita must be there, I thought, directing the unloading.

I didn’t call out. Why didn’t I call out? Thank God I didn’t call out.

For some reason I went quietly closer…tiptoeing. And I saw them-Anita and her husband Eduardo, who took care of the gardens-lying on the floor of the storage room, lying so still I knew they must be either unconscious or dead.

I stood frozen, I remember, my heart banging inside my chest. The rumble of voices in the storage room grew louder, and somehow I was moving, moving like a flash of lightning, not even feeling myself move and yet I was no longer standing in front of the storage-room door but was instead crouched down beside the cooking island with my hands pressed tightly over my mouth to hold back my whimpers of fear.

Three men emerged from the storage room, talking quietly and urgently in Spanish. I recognized the voice of Señor DelRey, Diego’s father, the family patriarch. The other two were security guards-I didn’t know their names. One of them locked the storage room door-my body jerked when I heard that loud click, and when it did my terror nearly overwhelmed me. What if they’d heard?

But they didn’t hear, and they didn’t see me. They passed by within three feet of me, still talking, and went out of the kitchen, and it was a long time before I was able to rise from my hiding place, shaking in every part of me, every bone in my body aching, and only one thought in my mind: I’ve got to leave this place…got to run…

But I was on an island, and there was no place to run to.

This town…Hartsville…such a small town. It seemed to her much like an island, in a way. Because once again, there was no place to run.

While Mary was struggling to sort through the chaos of memories in her mind, the sheriff said in a casually friendly way, like a neighbor she’d happened to run into shopping, “Where are you headed? You don’t have a car here. How ’bout I give you a ride home?”

She jerked a look at him that made her frozen neck muscles creak. “No-that’s…thank you, but I don’t need a ride.” She didn’t try to say more; her shivering was making her teeth chatter, and she couldn’t make it stop. Only her mind pleaded: Go away, please, just go away and leave me alone!

The sheriff gave her a sharp look; he wasn’t actually touching her anymore, but her chattering teeth were hard to miss. “You’re cold,” he said. Then quickly, before she could object, he shrugged out of the leather jacket he was wearing and draped it around her shoulders.

His body’s warmth and that strangely familiar smell embraced her, and she felt loneliness and longing rise like thickened honey in her throat. “You didn’t need to do that,” she muttered in a voice choked with it, and with a perverse and inexplicable anger. “I’m just going to the salon-it’s right around the corner from here.”

Again she felt those inquisitive eyes studying her as he effortlessly matched her quickened stride. “Going straight back to work? That’s dedication.”

She glanced at him, trying to decide whether he was mocking her or not, but the depression in his cheek that wasn’t quite a dimple told her nothing. “Of course I’d respect my clients’ appointments,” she said evenly. “If I had any. But I wouldn’t have clients today, anyway. I’m closed on Mondays.”

“So, why go in? People bailed out of jail, my experience is, most of the time they want to head straight home…take a shower, put on their own clothes…have a beer, feed the cat…”

“The cat I live with has plenty of food, a litter box and a kitty door. Plus, he hates me anyway.” She turned her face toward him, then lifted her hand to catch at a lock of hair that, jarred loose from its haphazard bun by the movement, chose that moment to unfurl across her cheek like a flag in the wind. “What business is it of yours where I go?” she demanded then, a freshet of anger making her incautious, and perhaps, illogical-a fact her unwelcome companion lost no time in pointing out.

“I’m the sheriff of this town,” he said in a soft and dangerous voice, “and you’ve been charged with murdering one of its citizens.” He lifted a hand to her cheek and, ignoring her quick, startled intake of breath, carefully slipped a finger under the misbehaving strand of hair and guided it behind her ear. “That makes everything you do my business, Miss Mary, from now until you come to trial.”

Her heart seemed to leap into her throat and catch there. Her lips felt stiff and dry. She licked them, to no effect whatsoever, and mumbled, “What happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty?’”

“Just want to make sure you stick around long enough for a jury to decide which one you are,” the sheriff drawled, facing forward again.

“I’m out on bail,” Mary said acidly. “Where do you think I’m going to go?”

“Oh, I don’t know. People charged with murder have been known to jump bail. Especially when it’s somebody else’s life savings they’re forfeiting.”

She gave a little gasp, anger and shame making a hard knot in her chest. “I’d never do that to Miss Ada. Never!” I would have left the deeds to Queenie’s house and salon to pay her back! Appalled at how near she’d come to blurting that out in her own defense, she managed to say in a choked voice, “Is that the kind of person you think I am? Not only am I a murderer, but someone who would…who’d do…”

As she struggled to find words adequate to describe so un-pardonable an act, her steps slowed to a halt. She found herself staring, uncomprehending, at the back of Queenie’s Beauty Salon and Boutique…at the criss-cross of yellow crime-scene tape and the unfamiliar padlock on the door.