Watch Me (18 page)

Cain certainly never had….

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Where’re we going?” Owen asked.

“I’m following you home.”

Owen’s eyebrows lifted above the rims of his glasses. “What for?”

“I want that picture.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

Cain snapped off the light. “I don’t know.”

“You won’t show it to Dad, will you?” he asked without moving.

“You don’t want me to?”

“He’s really upset about Amy. Maybe you and Amy were divorced, but she treated him more like a father than—” He stopped before he finished the sentence, but he’d already said enough.

“Than me?” Evidently, Owen was more flustered than Cain had realized. Or it was a calculated blunder.

“They were close,” he went on, his gaze steady. “She was his first daughter-in-law. And she came by all the time. Last week, she brought him a sack of peaches from her tree.”

“So what does this photograph of Sheridan have to do with Amy?”

“I’m just saying that…” He seemed to grope for words. “Well, with her murder and…and the way Robert’s been drinking lately…and Bailey’s rifle being found in your old cabin, I don’t think we should involve Dad in this. Robert told me Dad’s been having chest pains again.”

John had a history of high blood pressure. He also had some pretty severe sleep disorders. Cain could still remember him being up at night, walking the floor, taking a hot bath or making tea to help him relax. But Owen’s explanation wasn’t making sense. “If you and Robert have nothing to do with this, why are you so worried I might tell Dad?”

Owen didn’t answer.

“Wait a second,” Cain said. “You think it
was
Robert. You think it has to have been Robert. And you don’t want Dad to draw the same conclusion.”

“We don’t know enough to make a big stink,” Owen said. But Cain finally understood what was going on behind that purposely bland expression. Owen thought it was better for John to suspect Cain than to question his “real” son. Thinking Robert had done something so terrible, something that couldn’t be fixed or covered up—as John had tried to fix or cover up his youngest son’s other misdeeds and failures—might bring on the heart attack they’d feared for years.

“So I’m the sacrificial lamb,” Cain said.

The angle of Owen’s jaw revealed a hint of belligerence. “You don’t care about him anyway!”

Owen was right. But he hadn’t gone into the relationship assuming the worst. He’d been excited to have a father, had wanted John to accept him. But John had never given him anything to hang on to—no love, no emotional support, nothing. Owen had grown up in the same house, but he’d never understood Cain’s thoughts, feelings or actions, and probably never would.

Cain told himself it shouldn’t bother him to be blamed for the breach. It was just more of the same—another reminder that he was different from the rest of the family, separate.

“Fine,” he said. “I won’t say a word to
Dad
or anyone else about it. Not yet, anyway.”

Owen couldn’t quite hide his surprise. “You won’t?”

“Not if you tell me why.”

He shifted, obviously ill at ease. “Why what?”

“You’re scared. There’s more going on here than the photograph.”

Now that the light was off, dark shadows fell across Owen’s face, but Cain saw a hint of fear in his stiff posture. “There’s nothing else.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing. Robert was too young!”

“For the shooting, not the beating. How does the shooting figure into this? That’s what’s really worrying you, isn’t it? You’ve found some connection. And you’re terrified it’ll tear your family apart.”

No answer.

“How does the shooting figure into this?”
And then it occurred to him. “Where did Bailey’s rifle come from?” he asked, lowering his voice.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

Removing his glasses, Owen rubbed his eyes. It was a defensive movement, something designed to buy time, but Cain wouldn’t allow him to stall.

“Tell me, damn it!” he shouted. “I want the truth!”

Letting go of a long sigh, Owen slipped his glasses back on his face. “I found it in Robert’s trunk.”

“What were you doing in Robert’s trunk?”

“Looking for some jumper cables. Lucy’s car wouldn’t start and I couldn’t remember where I put mine.”

“But that was before the ballistics tests confirmed it was the weapon used in Jason’s murder.”

“There had to be some reason it was stolen. And when I found it in Robert’s trunk I was afraid of what that reason might be.”

T
he meeting between Cain and Owen seemed to be taking forever.

Trying to ignore the curious stares of the other patrons in the café, some of whom Sheridan recognized but didn’t know well enough to greet, she watched the clock—twenty minutes ticked by, thirty minutes, forty. The waitress came around to see if she’d like more tea, but she covered her cup with one hand and shook her head. She didn’t want anything except for Cain to come back and tell her what was going on.

Although it was getting late, and the stores closed early on Sundays, she decided to walk down Main Street and do some window-shopping to pass the time. But then Cain’s stepfather walked in with Ms. Stevens, the high school English teacher she’d had for American Literature, creating an interesting diversion. She knew they’d dated briefly after Cain’s mother died but thought they’d broken up. Apparently, they were back together because John was holding her hand.

They didn’t see her at first. They were too busy talking. But when they began to look for a booth, they spotted her almost immediately.

Karen Stevens had been her favorite teacher. Sheridan smiled expectantly, but when their eyes met, Ms. Stevens glanced away. It even seemed as if she tried to distract Cain’s stepdad by pointing to an open booth on the other side of the restaurant. But John Wyatt said something to her, then led her over.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked Sheridan, his eyes somber, concerned.

She remembered him coming to see her while she was recovering from that gunshot wound twelve years ago, remembered how haggard he’d looked. With red-rimmed eyes, he’d asked her point-blank what’d happened. He’d needed to hear the sequence of events from her own lips in order to believe the unbelievable, needed to at least try and achieve the resolution he craved. And yet he’d been sensitive to her suffering, too. Rather fatalistic and subdued, he’d accepted what she said without blaming her for not being able to tell him more—or for coaxing Jason up to Rocky Point in the first place. She considered that a gift because it was hard not to blame herself for those things.

She would’ve liked John Wyatt, except that she felt so defensive of Cain. There’d always been a difference in the way John treated him as opposed to his own boys, and that bothered her. It’d bothered her even back in high school.

“I’m doing better,” she said.

“Glad to hear it. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. It’s not fair.”

“Unfortunately, people are victimized more often than any of us would like to believe.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

“Hey, John!”

Cain’s father turned away to speak to a gentleman Sheridan didn’t recognize. She heard the man ask if he’d be willing to say a few words at Amy’s funeral in place of her own father, who’d died five years ago, and John readily agreed. At that point, Sheridan expected Ms. Stevens to focus on that other conversation and continue to ignore her. John had obviously forgotten about her. But her former English teacher seemed to rethink her earlier attitude.

“You still staying with Cain?” she asked.

“For the time being,” Sheridan said.

Ms. Stevens looked over her shoulder, seemed reassured to see John engrossed in conversation, and lowered her voice. “He must be taking good care of you.”

Sheridan sensed something strange behind that statement but she didn’t know why. Ms. Stevens had always liked Cain. She’d taken a special interest in him when he was in high school, probably hoping to make up for what he’d been lacking at home.

“He is,” Sheridan said. “He’s a very kind person.”

“I know.” Ms. Stevens’s smile grew sad. “Where is he?”

“He dropped me off a while ago. He had some business to attend to.”

“I see.”

After that, the silence stretched so long it grew awkward. Sheridan made an effort to come up with more small talk. “Are you still teaching?” she asked.

“I am. I’m actually chairman of the English department these days.” She laughed. “Which isn’t really saying a lot, since there’s only me and Mr. Burns.”

“I’m sure it keeps you busy.”

“It’s a good life. I know that now. I’m glad I decided to come back to Whiterock.”

Sheridan hadn’t realized she’d ever left. “Where’d you go?”

“To New York—for nearly ten years.”

“What took you there?”

“I needed a break. This town is so small that everyone knows everyone else. I felt hemmed in, wanted to try the big city.”

“You didn’t enjoy it?”

“It had its positive side, but mostly it taught me to appreciate what I have here.”

Sheridan had missed Whiterock, too. But she’d been so focused on running from the past and blaming herself for putting Jason in the wrong place at the wrong time that she rarely looked back. She’d been counseled not to even think about her hometown. Now she understood just how much she’d missed the life she’d known here.

The anger she felt toward the man who’d shot her and beaten her, if it was indeed the same person, nearly overwhelmed her. Those emotions sneaked up on her occasionally. One minute, she’d be fine, and the next she’d be overcome with rage. She tried to combat it by telling herself that she wasn’t alone. Victims everywhere experienced the same helpless, futile anger. At least she was doing what she could to turn it into something constructive. She couldn’t possibly have the kind of empathy she did for her clients if she hadn’t gone through a similar ordeal.

“I can see why you like it here,” Sheridan said.

Ms. Stevens toyed with the strap of her purse. “Will you be staying long? Or heading back to California? John tells me you’re one of the founders of a high-profile victims’ charity.”

“The charity’s been able to accomplish more than I ever dreamed. It’s gratifying work. But I’ll be here until I can figure out who attacked me.”

“It’s got to be tough not to have those answers, that sense of resolution,” she said.

“It is.”

“John feels the same way.”

“He lost his son. He’s a victim in this, too.”

“And then there’s Cain,” she said, her voice falling.

Sheridan hesitated, trying to determine what that change of tone meant. “Excuse me?”

“Cain. It can’t be easy to walk away from a man like that.”

Obviously, she’d heard about the camper incident. “He’s just a friend. There’s nothing between us.”

The bell jingled over the door and Sheridan looked over to see that Cain had finally returned. As his eyes met hers, her immediate reaction said she was a liar. She was still in love with him, maybe more than ever.

“Nothing?” Ms. Stevens said. “Judging by the relief on his face, I’d say he cares a great deal about you.”

“What relief?” Sheridan frowned skeptically. If it was there, she didn’t want to see it. It would only make resisting him that much harder. “He’s…preoccupied. With whatever he’s thinking about. That’s all.”

“But what he’s thinking is, ‘Thank God she’s safe.’”

“Karen, are you ready to sit down?” Obviously eager
to move away before he had to confront Cain, John reached for her as the man he’d been speaking to left.

“I’m ready,” she said, but she tossed Sheridan a barely audible parting comment. “You’re a lucky woman.”

Cain couldn’t help noticing the snub. The moment his stepfather had spotted him, he’d turned his back without so much as a nod and headed to the other side of the restaurant, choosing a booth that was as far away as he could get. But in Cain’s view, John had done him a favor. He didn’t have anything to say to his stepfather, anyway. He felt infinitely more comfortable now that they were no longer pretending to be on semicordial terms.

“What’d you find out?” Sheridan asked.

Cain tried to ignore the fact that his stepfather was even in the restaurant. “It was Owen who hid the gun in my cabin.”

“Owen?” Her eyes widened. She glanced toward John and Karen. They seemed engrossed in their own conversation—which appeared to be the beginning of an argument.

“Your stepbrother was trying to
frame
you?” Sheridan asked.

Cain motioned for her to keep her voice down. Most of the seniors who were the majority of the Roadhouse’s clientele on Sundays had already finished the turkey and gravy special and were on their way home. But as much as he didn’t want to acknowledge it, his stepfather was still around. “No. At least I don’t think so. He claims he found the rifle in Robert’s trunk and was trying to hide it somewhere no one would look.”

“So he was protecting Robert.”

“That part’s believable enough,” he added under his breath. “My stepfather and Owen have made a profession out of cleaning up little Robert’s messes.”

“But without ballistics testing, how would Owen know the rifle he found in Robert’s trunk was the gun that killed Jason? I mean, to the naked eye, most rifles look alike, don’t they?”

“Not if you’ve used a rifle before. Years ago, Owen went hunting with Bailey Watts. He recognized the gun as the one Bailey reported missing shortly after Jason’s death.”

“Still…Robert was so young when Jason and I were shot. He was, what, an eighth grader? Whoever wore that ski mask was the size of an adult.”

“He’s been the size of an adult since he was twelve. John used to call him Jethro after a character on ‘The Beverly Hillbillies.’”

“But would he even know how to use a rifle?”

“My stepfather taught his boys how to shoot as soon as they could carry a gun. By the time John married my mother, Robert was seven and could shoot better than Owen.”

Obviously troubled, Sheridan sat back against the booth. “But…why would he do that to his older brother? To me? He didn’t even know me.”

“Why would
anyone
do it?”

Kelly, the eighteen-year-old daughter of the widow who owned the Roadhouse, approached the table with a glass of water, which she slid onto the varnished tabletop. “What can I get for you, Cain?”

“Just a cup of coffee,” he said.

She smiled and hurried away, and Cain returned his focus to Sheridan. “Not what you expected me to say, right?”

“No.” Her cup clinked as she set it in her saucer. “So before we do anything else, we need to talk to Robert. Find out where he got that rifle.”

“I just came from his trailer. He claims he found it in Grandpa Marshall’s shed four years ago, when we were moving him into the nursing home.” Propping his elbows on the table, he leaned forward. “He says Owen never told him he found the gun. It just went missing one day, leaving him to wonder what the hell happened to it.”

“He didn’t tell anyone he’d lost it?”

“No. It wasn’t his to begin with. He figured, ‘easy come, easy go.’” He took a drink of his water. “Interpreted, that means he thought he might’ve done something with it when he was drunk.”

“But why didn’t he speak up when it was discovered in your cabin?”

“He said he didn’t realize it was the same gun.”

“I don’t believe him.”

“I think it could be true, at least at first. Then, after the police proved it was the gun that shot you and Jason, he was too scared to come forward for fear the blame would shift to him.”

“So he let everyone blame you instead.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, he doesn’t give a shit about me.”

“Why don’t you and Robert get along?”

Cain shrugged. “He’s a lazy slob. Even when he was
a kid we couldn’t get him to help out with anything. All he wanted to do was play video games.”

“So your relationship wasn’t any better when you lived with him?”

“Actually, it wasn’t so bad then. He was the youngest in the family. It was easy to make up excuses for him. We all pitched in, figuring he’d change as he grew up. But letting him lean on us for so long only made matters worse. He’s still leaning on whoever will let him.”

Sheridan seemed to weigh this new information. “So…about the gun…”

“What about it?”

“Why would your grandfather have it in his possession?”

“Who knows? Grandpa was a pack rat. Anyone could’ve stuck the rifle under one of the tarps that covered various boxes of junk he kept in his sheds. We don’t even know for sure that Robert found it there, like he says he did.”

“What about the picture in Owen’s truck?” she asked.

Cain had explained his conversation with Tiger on their drive to town. “He’s blaming that on Robert, too,” he said, taking the picture he’d gotten from Owen out of his pocket and passing it to her. “That was Owen’s truck Robert was driving when we saw him at the nursing home.”

She unfolded it and stared down at herself, one hand over her mouth as she saw the holes in her face. “Does Robert have a digital camera?”

“He does. He fancies himself an amateur photographer and spends a lot of time tinkering with his photo
graphs—when he’s not playing Internet war games with his online buddies, that is.”

“
War
games?”

“He’s always been fascinated by military strategy and gaming.”

They sat in silence for several seconds, that picture on the table between them. Cain wasn’t sure he should’ve shown it to her—with those vicious-looking holes slashed in her face. But she had experience in criminal investigation. He thought it was important to disclose what he’d found.

“Robert lives right down the street from my uncle’s place,” she finally said.

Cain nodded. “He was probably one of the first people to realize you were back.” He could easily have watched her, and taken that picture through the window. It wasn’t as if he had a wife to wonder where he was. Or anyone else who kept track of him.

The waitress brought his coffee.

“Cream?” Sheridan offered him the bowl that contained plastic cups.

Cain shook his head. “I like it black.”

She put it down and seemed to force herself to look back at the photograph. “Did he deny taking this picture?”

“Of course. He even handed me his digital camera, let me scroll through every shot. But that doesn’t mean anything. He could’ve downloaded the file onto his computer and cleared the memory.”

“He didn’t offer you access to his computer, did he?”

“No. But I plan on checking when I get the chance.”

She twirled her own water glass, making rings of
condensation on the table. “Your grandfather doesn’t have many personal belongings in the retirement home. Just the basics. What’d you guys do with his stuff when you sold the house?”