Rita Herron - Redemption At Hawk's Landing

He glanced toward the mountain. Remembering that the murder weapon was most likely a rock, he walked to his SUV, climbed in and drove to Dead Man’s Bluff. He parked, then scanned the area, tormented by the memory of that fateful night Chrissy went missing. The fact that her body hadn’t been found should have given him hope that she was alive, but...he knew the odds.

Was her disappearance somehow tied to Waylon Granger’s murder? He didn’t see how it could be.

But he had to know.

He pulled on latex gloves and climbed from his SUV. The sun beat down on him as he combed the parking area and weeds beside it. He searched the overgrown bushes flanking the old mine, and the weeds jutting up by the swimming hole.

Nothing.

Of course the killer could have tossed the rock into the swimming hole and it could be under water. The wind whistled from the cave, that ghostly sound that stirred the rumors surrounding the place, and he retrieved his flashlight from the truck.

Determined to explore all possible avenues before diving into the swimming hole, he crept inside the entrance to the mine. It was dark as hell inside, cold, and smelled of wet moss, dirt and decay. The scent of urine was almost overpowering, suggesting that curiosity seekers not only ventured inside but used it as a bathroom, too.

Ignoring the stench, he raked the flashlight along the wall and searched the floor. The opening was clear. Cigarette butts, beer bottles and evidence of discarded drug paraphernalia.

He picked up a stick and raked away some of the trash then made his way to the corner where he found an old sleeping bag, two empty tin cans that had held beans and a metal coffee mug. Had someone been living inside?

He shone the light along the wall and spotted a small cluster of rocks in a circular pattern. Burned sticks lay in a pile of ashes in the middle.

His light illuminated the corner of the pile, and he noticed a rock shoved into the debris. He stooped down and raked away the ashes with a stick.

It definitely was a rock, a sharp, jagged one. He peered closer. Something red stained the side of the stone.

He pulled the rock from the pile and examined it. It was almost as large as his hand and could have been used as a weapon.

He sniffed the red substance. It was sticky and held a metallic odor—definitely blood.

Granger’s? He’d have it tested.

Pulse jumping, he carried it from the cave, bagged it and stowed it in his truck. If there were prints on it, he might be able to nail the killer.

His gut tightened with dread.

He hadn’t yet told his family about Granger’s death. It was time he did.

He glanced at the rock on the seat of his truck with trepidation. He just hoped he didn’t find one of their prints on that rock.

* * *

HONEY PASSED THE sheriff’s office as she drove through Tumbleweed. She couldn’t believe Harrison Hawk was sheriff. She’d expected him to leave this small town for something bigger and better. Harrison was smart, had been popular, had girls swooning over him.

His bad-boy sexy, flirty ways had been appealing. But after his sister disappeared, he’d become angry, moody and sullen.

His close-knit family had fallen apart.

Several mothers and their children played in the park at the edge of town where they’d added splash pads for the kids to cool off in the summer heat. Her heart squeezed as a little girl in pigtails with pink ribbons flying in the wind ran toward her mother and threw her arms around her.

Ribbons... Chrissy had loved ribbons in her hair and had collected a box of assorted colors.

Honey turned down the side street that led to Lower Tumbleweed, the street where her father lived. Technically the area was named Lower Tumbleweed because it sat in the lower valley. Although the name held another connotation, implying the families who lived there were lower-class. The families on the street were poor—the children received free lunches and free dental care, and they lived off food stamps.

Taunts from other kids about Lower Tumbleweed echoed in her head.

God, how she’d hated the cruel comments. Had hated that the kids at school knew so much about her. Worse, that the gossip about her mother being a tramp and her father a drunk were true.

At least her best friend at the time, Cora Zimmerman, had a mother who worked hard for a living. Not that Cora hadn’t gotten teased, too, but at least her mother’s job at the hair salon had been reputable.

She hadn’t thought about Cora in a long time and wondered where she was now.

The street sign for her father’s road had been run over and lay on the ground. Tire tracks marred the faded green metal. She knew the turn, though, and made it, her throat filling with disgust when she spotted the dilapidated, run-down houses and yards.

The houses had been small and worn eighteen years ago. Weather and lack of care had sent them downhill. Porches were sagging, boards rotting, paint peeling off, concrete driveways cracking, shutters dangling askew.

Weeds and dead bushes choked the yards, and debris from a recent storm littered what had once been grass. Most of the houses were vacant now, and a couple were boarded up as if they’d been condemned.

Her father’s sat like an eyesore at the end of the street. The once-white wood had yellowed, and her father had substituted a lone brick to replace the broken steps to the porch. She sighed as she parked, and ran a hand through her hair.

She bought houses like this and completely renovated them, turning them into showcases. For a brief second an image of gorgeous little bungalows filled her vision. She could make this neighborhood into something to be proud of.

But every house needed to be gutted.

Sweat beaded on her neck as she climbed from the van.

No. She would not think about renovating the neighborhood. She didn’t intend to stay here a minute longer than necessary. And she sure as hell didn’t care if someone bulldozed every house on the street.

Tomorrow she’d talk to the local real estate agent and see if any investors were interested in the properties.

But tonight she had to stay here.

The thought sent dread through her. How was she going to sleep in this nasty place? It had been bad enough as a child before she’d known better.

She should have booked a room at the local inn, but she hadn’t wanted to announce her arrival or come face-to-face with anyone else from her past.

Squaring her shoulders, she decided to check out the inside first. If it was unlivable, she’d try the inn.

Weeds clawed at her legs as she walked up to the porch. She climbed the makeshift brick step, then dodged holes in the floor as she crossed to the door. She jiggled it and it opened easily, then she stepped inside.

Nausea flooded her as her childhood rushed back. Images of her parents fighting hit her, along with the strong odor of cigarettes and booze.

It was a gut job. The threadbare sofa and chair her father had had when she lived here was falling apart. Cigarette ashes and empty liquor bottles testified to the fact that he hadn’t changed his ways.

The kitchen was outdated, the cabinets sad looking, the Formica kitchen table and counters greasy and splattered with food stains.

Anger at her father for letting the place reach such disrepair railed inside her. She’d seen worse on jobs, but this had once been her home, albeit a dysfunctional one, but at least it hadn’t been filthy. Because she had cleaned it.

She passed the kitchen, then stopped in the hallway in front of her father’s bedroom. The faded chenille spread remained, stained and dotted with cigarette burns. The metal bed was rusty, the curtains dingy, her father’s work boots and clothes piled on a chair in the corner.