Emilie Richards - Fox River

Christian raised a brow. For a man who couldn’t imagine how he’d been assigned to train dogs, Timbo was evolving fast. “All the homes are good. Most have children and other pets to play with. She’ll be fine. And we’ll see her back here in a year.”

“Just wondering.”

“You’ve done your job with her.”

“Never had me no dog. But I fed some, you know? Dogs in the neighborhood nobody took care of. Used to buy sacks of dog food and leave ‘em in the alley at night.”

“You’re all heart, Timbo.”

Timbo grinned. “That’s me.”

“Do a good job here, and when you get out Bertha will help find you a job on the outside.”

“What, shoveling dog shit at some kennel?”

“You might aim a little higher than that.”

“I got big plans.”

Christian squatted beside the little retriever, scratching behind her ears. “A man’s plans have a way of changing.”

“Yeah? Looks like yours are about to.”

Christian glanced up and saw the guard on duty motioning for him. He stood. “Take her back to the kennel, would you? Then go on over and help Javier. I’ll see what he wants.”

“What he wants is to make you feel like you nuthin’.”

Silently Christian handed Timbo Seesaw’s leash.

Mel Powers was a skinny man who perspired like a heavy one. He wore an extravagant hairpiece, expensive suits that always looked cheap and gold-rimmed glasses with lenses that were as thick as his New Jersey accent. The effect was more ambulance chaser than high-powered attorney, but Mel Powers was the revered Great White of shark-infested waters. Mel, considered the best criminal attorney in Virginia, had been hired by Peter Claymore to represent Christian. He still took Christian’s conviction as a personal affront.

Peter Claymore, of Claymore Park, was a study in contrasts. At sixty, he was twenty years older than Mel, and if he sweated at all, it was only after hours of riding to hounds. His silver hair was thick and his eyesight so perfect he could detect movement in the forest when everyone else believed a fox had gone to ground. When he wore a suit, it was tailored to highlight the breadth of his shoulders and the good taste of his ancestors. Claymore Park, the largest and most successful horse property in Ridge’s Race, had been home to Claymores long before the War of Northern Aggression.

Christian hadn’t expected to find either man waiting for him in the tiny visitors’ room. Neither the guard who had summoned him to the warden’s office nor the warden who had brought him here had given him any indication. After shaking hands, he seated himself on the other side of the small rectangular table and waited for them to speak.

“You’re looking well, Christian.” Peter sat with one arm on the table, the other thrown over the back of his chair. He looked at home in this unlikely place, but in all the years Christian had known him, Peter had never seemed ill at ease.

“I’m doing as well as you could expect, sir.” Christian’s gaze flicked to Mel, who was patting his forehead with a folded handkerchief.

“I get the heebie-jeebies every time I come.” Mel wiped his hands. “I feel like I’m being smothered in cotton. Can’t breathe at all. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Breathing comes naturally to me.”

“I hear good reports about the Pets and Prisoners program,” Peter said.

“I doubt they’ll cut it any time soon.”

“You might not be here long enough to worry.” Mel shoved his handkerchief in his pocket, then thought better of it. He took it out, folded it and shoved it in again.

“Christian, we’ve had some encouraging news.” Peter put both hands on the table and leaned forward. “Very encouraging.”

Christian, who had been wending his way through the appeals process for too long to be hopeful, waited. But even though he struggled not to feel anything, something inside him tightened, a spring coiling in anticipation.

“Bertha Petersen says she talked to you?”

“About Karl Zandoff? She did.”

“It must have been on your mind ever since.”

In truth, Christian had refused to let himself dwell on his conversation with Bertha. False hope was more dangerous than none, and “long shot” had been coined for coincidences like this one. “It hasn’t been on my mind. Why should it be? Zandoff’s about to fry, and the only thing we ever had in common was his brief residence in Virginia. If he ever lived here at all.”

Mel waved his hand, directing the conversation like a hyperactive symphony conductor. “He seems to think you have more in common than that. You were convicted of Fidelity Sutherland’s murder, but Zandoff was the one who calmly slit her throat.”

For a moment Christian couldn’t breathe. Then he shook his head. “You’re telling me this is what you believe? What you hope for?”

“He’s telling you what Zandoff told the authorities in Florida this morning. He confessed to killing Fidelity. He was there, at South Land, the afternoon Fidelity was killed. He caught her alone in the house. He killed her—”

“How does he say he got my knife?” The knife that had killed Fidelity, a specially designed horseman’s knife with several blades and tools, had belonged to Christian.

“Found it in the Sutherlands’ barn on a window ledge. You’d been there that week to ride, hadn’t you? You probably used it to pick a hoof or trim a strap, then left it.”

“What about the jewelry? I’ve read Zandoff’s history. He only killed for pleasure.”

“He always took trophies.” Mel fanned himself with his hand. “And this time he says he needed money to get back to Florida. Nobody was at home, so afterward he took his time looking for something he could sell. She didn’t keep her jewelry under lock and key. We knew that. He found it, pocketed it and went outside.”

“That’s when he saw you,” Peter said. “You were calling Fidelity’s name. He said you were on the way inside and you looked furious. He knew you would find her, and he started to worry that someone might catch and search him before he got far enough away to avoid suspicion. So he dug a hole and buried the jewelry.”

Mel took over. “But not everything. After he heard your voice, he was in such a hurry that he dropped a necklace.”

Christian stared at him.

“That’s the necklace you found on the stairs,” Peter said. “The one that put you in this prison.”

“They’re looking for the jewelry now.” Mel took out his handkerchief again. “He’s told the police where to look. When they find it, it will corroborate his story.”

Christian sat forward. “And if they don’t?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because it’s been nine years. Where does he say he hid it?”

Peter answered. “Along the fence line between South Land and Claymore Park.”

“Do you know how many people come and go at South Land? Do you think there’s really a chance that if any of the drifters who’ve worked for the Sutherlands found that jewelry they would have turned it in?”

“Zandoff says he was planning to go back for it,” Peter said. “Only he never had the chance. He got scared and took off for Florida without it. But he claims he hid it well. We’ve got a good chance, Christian. A very good chance.”

“And if they do find it?”

“Then we’ll be back in court to have you released while the matter’s investigated further.”

Christian sat absolutely still, but his heart was speeding. He could school his appearance, even his thoughts, but his body remembered what it was like to be free.

Peter reached across the table and rested his hand on Christian’s. “I know how you must feel. Believe me, I know, and so does Mel.”