Alice Sharpe - The Lawman's Secret Son

“I don’t know what I’m getting at.” Brady took a steadying breath. “How do we know Lara wasn’t the real victim?”

“Why would anyone want to shoot her?”

“I don’t know. Ask Bill Armstrong where he was tonight.”

“Don’t start on that. Bill Armstrong wouldn’t shoot Jason Briggs.”

“Wouldn’t he? Your scenario of my not wanting Jason to tell Lara something might also pertain to Armstrong. Maybe there’s something Billy told Jason that Armstrong doesn’t want Jason telling Lara. Or maybe he just wants to hurt Lara to get back at me.”

“Is something going on between you two?”

“No,” Brady said. “But he doesn’t know that.”

Tom looked unconvinced. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

HOW DID YOU FIND a madman when you had no clues? Jason could have made new enemies in juvenile detention, he could have tempted old enemies who heard he was back in town and saw him riding his bike off on his own. Like Brady had. Was he sure there hadn’t been a third party trailing him while he trailed Jason? Had he even thought to look?

No, and yet somehow Brady didn’t believe that was the answer. He thought it was as simple as someone not wanting Jason Briggs talking to Lara Kirk.

Why?

Or maybe someone wanted Lara dead and was a lousy shot.

Twenty minutes after leaving the clearing, he entered the emergency-room doors for the first time in almost a year, nodding at the nurse behind the desk as his still-soggy boots squeaked with every step. In lieu of a shirt, which he’d donated to help stem Jason’s bleeding, he wore an old jacket he carried on the bike. It was too hot a garment for August.

“Hey, Brady. Long time no see.”

“How you doing, Tammy? I’m here to check on Lara Kirk and Jason Briggs.”

She frowned for a second. About his own age, she looked ten years older, probably because she smoked like a fiend when no one was watching. Brady had caught her outside a few times and used to tease her about it.

“Ms. Kirk was treated for a superficial gunshot wound in her right arm and was released an hour ago. The Briggs boy is in surgery. It’s touch and go.”

“I thought Ms. Kirk was going to wait for me,” Brady mused aloud, unsure what to do now.

“She got a call and left.”

Brady thanked her briskly and took off. Who had called her? Why? What was important enough for her to leave the hospital when she’d made a point of telling him to meet her there? Was it possible she didn’t understand the importance of the fact that Jason Briggs wasn’t the only one who had been shot tonight?

He got as far as the Harley before feeling a hulking presence behind him. He turned abruptly and immediately recognized Bill Armstrong emerging from between parked cars.

Armstrong was about the same size as Brady though a couple of years older. He’d been a mechanic since graduating from high school. Married his high-school sweetheart. As far as Brady knew, he’d been doing okay for himself and his family until his daughter committed suicide and a few weeks later, his son died.

Thanks to Brady.

Now word was that Bill Armstrong had taken to drinking, his wife had threatened to leave him and his job was in peril.

“I heard you almost killed another kid tonight,” Armstrong said, coming to a halt six feet away from Brady. The overhead lights illuminated the thatch of sandy hair that continued around his face in a trimmed beard.

“You heard wrong,” Brady said. He didn’t want to waste time with Armstrong, but he didn’t want to turn his back on him, either.

“I heard Jason Briggs got shot and that you were there.”

Brady waited.

“That little gal who left when you murdered my son is back in Riverport.”

“Who told you that?”

He tapped his forehead with a finger. “I just know. Maybe it would have been better for her if she’d stayed away.”

Brady advanced a few steps. “She was a counselor to your kids,” he said. “She tried to help them. She’s an innocent in all this.”

Armstrong backed down a little. He looked in the direction of his shoes as he said, “Do you suppose she’d miss you if some concerned citizen took it in his mind to eliminate a public menace?”

Brady’s gut tightened. His decision to stop carrying a gun suddenly seemed shortsighted.

“I don’t, either,” Armstrong said. “But killing you is too easy.” His voice caught. “I want you to know what it’s like to lose someone you love,” Armstrong continued, his eyes moist now. “If you had a son it would be perfect. An eye for an eye. Poetic justice.”

“Where were you tonight?” Brady said softly.

Ignoring the question, Armstrong said, “You don’t know what it’s like to lose a kid.”

With total sincerity, Brady said, “I’ve told you a dozen times how sorry I am about your son. I had no choice. There was no time. He pulled a gun.”

Please, God, let that be true…

For a second, Armstrong looked ready to throw his weight at Brady. And then he rocked back on his heels and steadied himself by grabbing the hood of the closest car.

Brady picked his helmet up off the seat. “Stay away from Lara Kirk and Jason Briggs,” he said.

Armstrong shook his head. He took a deep breath and glared at Brady. “You’re not a cop anymore, Skye. You’re a washed-up has-been just like your old man. Maybe the other cops let you off the hook for murdering my kid, but I won’t. You’ll pay for what you did to me and mine.”

“I know,” Brady said. “You’re going to take me for every dime I have.”

The smile that broke Armstrong’s face was worse than his sneer. “That’ll be a start. We’ll see where it ends.”

Brady got on the bike and started the engine.

Was Armstrong a grieving man, more bark than bite, or was Brady’s gut feeling Lara was in terrible danger more than his guilty conscience at work?

At any rate, he wasn’t going to leave her alone tonight. He’d swing by his place and grab a toothbrush and some dry shoes and clothes. Trade the Harley for his truck in case they needed to go somewhere. Like it or not, she had a guard tonight.

WHAT WAS KEEPING Brady?

Lara stood by the front windows, freshly showered, wearing old sweats she’d found in a bottom drawer. She was still cold even though she knew it was a warm night, summer at its apex. When she closed her eyes, the cold river flooded her head.

Before the night was over she would tell Brady what she’d come back to Riverport to tell him.

She’d wanted to tell him forever.

The sitting room, as her mother called the room to the left of the foyer, was typical Victorian with very high ceilings and tall, stately windows. A rose and ivory Oriental carpet, its silk soft against Lara’s bare feet, covered the hardwood floor.

“Lara?” Lara turned at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice. “Everything is quiet upstairs,” Myra added. “I think I’ll turn in.”

“Of course. Thanks for your help today. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I’m just glad I didn’t go on that cruise with your mother like she wanted. I did that once a couple of years ago and if you don’t mind my saying, it wasn’t much of a vacation for me.”

Lara nodded. She could imagine. As Myra left the room, a pair of headlights pulled up in front of the house. Lara recognized Brady’s green truck parked under the streetlight and she left the room, headed for the front door, suddenly aware her feet tingled and her palms felt sweaty. She took a deep breath as she pulled open the door.

He looked up as he took the last few steps. He’d obviously taken a shower and changed clothes and in the porch light, dressed in black jeans and a gray Henley, he looked lean, capable and focused.