A Shot to Die For (16 page)

I smiled. The way he answered a question with another reminded me of my father. “Rich men’s sons usually got out of the draft. Or went into the Guard.”

“There was no draft. I enlisted.”

I looked over, surprised. Luke Sutton was flouting all my preconceptions. “Why?”

“I needed to get away and…well….” He paused. “Who the fuck knows?” It came out hard, and for a moment, the anger was back. “They trained me on high-powered rifles. We had to hit targets from five hundred yards.” I had the sense he was trying to work something out. Get it right. “But then they let me fly. It helped pull me out of it.”

“Out of what?”

He looked over, startled, as if he’d revealed something he hadn’t intended. “Nothing.” He stared straight ahead, quiet for a moment. Then, “Nice country, isn’t it?”

I looked through the windshield. The sun was on our left. Large patches of farmland swam all the way to the horizon, where they were sliced off by a sharp delineation between land and sky.

“If we kept going north, we’d hit the lake country.” He gestured through the window. “We have a fishing cabin up there. That’s where I was when Daria Flynn was killed.”

I cocked my head.

“But you don’t have to believe me. You can check with the guy who manages the airstrip outside Star Lake. It’s in Vilas County. In northern Wisconsin. His name’s Norman Desmond.”

Was that the truth? Slip enough cash into the right hands, and people will say anything you want. And Luke Sutton had enough cash. Still, he knew I could follow up.

“What did you tell Daria Flynn? About the catering?”

“I told her I’d think about it, but honestly, the only catering I can afford is jet fuel. I didn’t see how I could do it.”

“You told her that?”

“I never got the chance.”

“So why doesn’t anyone else know this?”

“Who says no one knows?”

I sat back. Once again, I’d been put in my place. I was an outsider. No. If he really believed that, I wouldn’t be up in the Cessna with him. “So you flew planes in the army, and now you’re starting an airline. What did you do between?”

“You ask a lot of questions, you know that?” But there was no rancor, and his voice was soft. “I lived in Montana.”

“Doing what?”

“I worked on a ranch for a while. Then I bought it.”

“Oh.”

“I can give you names there, too, in case you want to check it out.” But there was a smile on his face.

“That won’t be necessary,” I said primly.

A moment later, he turned the wheel, and we started to bank. I clutched the edge of my seat.

“All under control,” he said. “Look. I gave you answers. Now it’s your turn. Why do you think I was involved with Daria Flynn’s murder?”

I gazed at him, looking for any clue that he was still angry. All I saw was curiosity. I took a breath. “Daria was abandoned by her boyfriend at the rest stop. But no one, including her family, seems to know who her boyfriend was. Then, when one of the waitresses at the Lodge told me she’d seen you and Daria together, I just…well….”

“Assumed I was her boyfriend?”

“I wasn’t sure. But then, when I saw you with Jimmy Saclarides and found out he was the chief of police, and then I found out Herbert Flynn used to work for you, I—”

“Herbert.” His mouth tightened, and he went silent.

“I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?” I asked through the headphones.

He didn’t answer, but something about the way he’d said “Herbert” told me to back off.

The drone of the engine seemed to grow louder. Apparently, his mood could change like quicksilver. Had I blown it? Strange. Now the situation had reversed itself. I wanted him to believe me. I cast around for something to say. I remembered what he’d said about his mother.

“My mother passed away about eight years ago.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, “Mine might as well have.”

“How can you say that?” It came out more sharply than I’d intended.

“When I was a kid, she was always singing. Playing games with us. Making us peanut butter sandwiches. But now….” He broke off, as though he didn’t want to be reminded that life had once been happy and cheerful and full of promise. “What happened to yours?” he asked after a while.

“Pancreatic cancer. It was quick, but we had the chance to say good-bye.”

He kept his eyes on the dials. “That can’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t.” I paused. “I—I’m sorry about your sister,” I added.

He nodded back.

Below us evening spread across the ground like a blanket. Purple shadows covered everything, but at our altitude, we could still see the sun. A small rosy disk, it fell slowly toward the horizon, shooting off glints that frosted the hills with fire.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said.

I looked over, puzzled. “For what?”

“The way my brother treated you. At the Lodge.”

“Who told—oh, Jimmy. Of course.”

“Chip has”—he hesitated—“issues.”

The incident at the Lodge seemed like a long time ago. Up here I felt insulated. Out of time and place, but safe. As though I could say anything. Was that the attraction for Luke? A free-fly zone, where honesty and candor reigned? Maybe that’s why I said what I did next. I hadn’t told anyone, not even Susan. I looked out my window. I could just see the moon in the eastern sky, crystalline silver and blue and perfectly round.

“I just found out I had a brother. An older brother. He only lived a day. I never knew him.”

“You just found this out?”

“My father told me the other day. It’s hard to believe they kept it from me all these years.”

“Maybe they were protecting their privacy. Maybe they didn’t want to inflict it on you. It was their hurt. Their pain.”

“My mother took it hard,” I admitted. “Like I said, I never knew him, but it’s made a difference.”

“How?”

“As an only child, sometimes I felt like I was marooned on an island by myself. Now I know there was someone else on that island. He didn’t stick around very long, but I wasn’t alone, after all. Do you know what I’m saying?” I shook my head. “Sorry. I’m probably not making any sense.”

“More than you know.”

We didn’t say anything for a moment.

“We’re almost back now, aren’t we?”

“Yes.” He almost seemed wistful. Then he grinned. “Now, be honest. Flying’s not so bad, is it?”

I smiled back. “It isn’t.”

“You just need more experience. Which you’re going to get right now.” He looked over. “Bring us down, Ellie.”

“What?”

“Here.” He took my hand, placed it on the control wheel, and covered it with his own. “Ease it forward. Nice and slow.” I felt him press against my hand. “That’s it. Don’t be afraid. Just feel it.”

The plane shifted under our hands. We started to drop, but it was a gentle descent. Not at all the nightmarish image I had of planes falling out of the sky. As the plane responded to my hand, I felt a new, almost inexplicable feeling. Power. And control. Amazed, I glanced over at Luke, about to tell him I think I finally got it. But when our eyes met, his expression had changed. The smile was still there, but something else was just behind it. Something fiery and passionate and wanting, something that took my breath away. His hand was still pressing down on mine. I felt the fire jump to my skin.

Chapter Twenty-four

When we landed, I climbed out of the plane, and Luke rolled it back into the hangar. After locking the hangar door, he followed me over to Mac’s van. It was dark, but a spotlight on the outside wall lit the planes of his face. “I enjoyed that, Ellie.”

“I did, too.” My arms hung at my sides. I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

“Next time you go up, maybe you won’t be as scared.”

I nodded. His eyes held mine, as if he wanted to say something more but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. The breeze picked up, carrying his scent. I breathed it in. I wanted him to touch me; I was afraid that he would touch me.

I forced myself to step back. This was crazy. It was just my hormones. Or the fact that David and I were through. He stepped closer and brushed the side of my cheek with his fingertips. A few strands of hair had come loose. He tucked them behind my ear.

I trembled. “My hair must be a mess.”

“You’re beautiful.” He raised a finger to his lips.

I reached up and wound my fingers through his beard. A gentle tangle of gray and brown, it was surprisingly soft. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Good-bye, Ellie.” Then he turned, walked away, and climbed into his pickup.

I fumbled around for the keys to Mac’s van, finally locating them under the seat. I stabbed at the ignition several times before the key slid in. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so clumsy. Or needy. Or elated.

***

It was well after dark by the time I got home. Rachel had grilled burgers for dinner, but I wasn’t hungry. I figured I could manage dessert, though, so we drove over to Dairy Queen. Soft ice cream should be one of the world’s seven wonders. First, you get to watch it ooze out of the machines, cascading and twisting into thick, lazy swirls. Then you get to flick your tongue around a mound of cold, sweet creaminess. Finally you draw it into your mouth, savoring the fact that it’s solid enough not to melt, but not hard enough to choke you. Three awe-inspiring sensations in one food item.

Rachel chattered on about a lifeguard at the pool who’d asked for her phone number. I tried to pry out how old he was, whether he drove, or was still in high school, but after a few nonanswers, the kind that fifteen-year-olds have perfected, I realized she either didn’t know or wasn’t about to tell me. My third degree could wait until he came to the house. If he did.

Back home, I changed into an old T-shirt that doubles as a summer nightgown and tried not to think about Luke Sutton. I turned on the TV news in my bedroom and got into bed. It had been a week since the third sniper attack, and media coverage had fallen off. Tonight, though, the station I was watching proclaimed a major development.

According to their investigative reporter, the State Police had discovered a shell casing at the O’Hare oasis crime scene. “It was a .223,” the reporter announced, “which, after careful study and comparison, was found to have come from a semiautomatic weapon like this one, a Bushmaster 223.” The story cut to a shot of a high-powered rifle, which looked like any other gun to me until the reporter added, “Often referred to as the civilian version of the military M16, the Bushmaster is a favorite of former military personnel or those who want the feel of a military weapon.” The reporter went on to say the Bushmaster had been the weapon of choice for snipers in other states and could hit a target as far as 500 yards away. It was also remarkably easy to learn how to use.

The story cut back to the reporter on camera. “But—while police sources say bullet fragments from the April sniper attack are consistent with this type of gun, they aren’t saying that about the Lake Forest incident.”

I sat up.

“In fact, our sources tell us that bullet fragments used in the Lake Forest sniper attack probably came from a .308 caliber bullet. Those bullets are typically used in bolt-action rifles like this Remington.” Another weapon flashed onto the screen. It looked different from the first one, but I couldn’t really tell how.

“The significance of this is that with two different rifles and two different caliber bullets, we may be dealing with two different shooters.”

I leaned forward.

The broadcast cut to a back and forth between the anchorman and the reporter.

“So the shooter at the O’Hare oasis, the one with the beard and bandana, might not have acted alone?” asked the anchorman.

“Not exactly, Marty. What I’m saying—and what police have to be looking at—is the possibility of a copycat.”

“At the Lake Forest oasis?” the anchorman asked.

“Right,” the reporter answered. “And there’s another anomaly as well.”

Anomaly? Someone else I knew used that word.

“Only one shot was fired at the Lake Forest oasis, but witnesses at each of the other two rest stops heard several shots. As many as five or six.”

“This is a big development, Bob. Two snipers instead of one. What are the police saying?”

“They’re not confirming or denying anything. In fact, they have not returned my—our calls.”

The anchorman continued, “Now, let’s clear one thing up. Whether we’re dealing with a copycat or not, police still believe that two people were involved in each of the three sniper attacks. A driver and a shooter.”

“That’s correct, Marty. Which means we may be dealing with four people now, instead of two.”

“Is there any reason to think the discovery of the shell casing at the O’Hare oasis will answer that question?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“I see.” The anchorman nodded sagely, although if his fuzzy questions were any indication, I doubted that he got it. “Well, thanks for your exclusive report, Bob. I know you’ll keep us posted on all the developments.” The two men traded smiles.

I zapped the tube with the remote. Despite a thick anchorman, this
was
a major development. Up until now, the idea that Daria’s death was caused by someone she knew was just speculation and gossip. But now, there seemed to be some evidence supporting that theory. Sure, it could have been a sick weirdo intent on making a name for himself. But what if it wasn’t?

I crept downstairs, trying not to disturb Rachel, who’d gone to sleep early. The reporter would never reveal his source, but I suspected I knew who it was. How many people would use the word “anomaly” in the same context? Detective Milanovich had to be frustrated by his lack of progress—a carefully planted leak might cause the dam to break.

But that wasn’t what why I went into kitchen and poured myself a large glass of wine. Luke Sutton said he’d been at his fishing cabin when Daria Flynn was killed. And that their meetings had been strictly business. But now that I knew some of the history of the two families, I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. What’s more, I couldn’t ignore three other facts: Luke drove a green pickup, he had a beard, and he knew how to use a high-powered rifle.