Part 15 (1/2)
”Guests still there, huh?” Adam remarked dryly. ”Man, you are really turning into saintly material. Have I inspired you, Mom?”
”Stick it,” I muttered. ”You just never noticed before what a wonderful person I am.”
”In a way,” Adam said, ”that's true. It's not just studying for the priesthood, though. I guess I'm getting to be a grownup.”
”About time,” I noted. Then, unable to keep the maternal pride out of my voice, I added, ”You're turning into a top-notch person. I'd like to brag, but I don't. Much.”
As Amber removed Danny from the room, Adam and I turned to the subject of my proposed trip to the Twin Cities. I had to admit I hadn't yet contacted Janet Drig-gers at Sky Travel to make the arrangements, but I'd try to see her on my lunch break Monday. Then we got caught up with more mundane matters. Before signing off, Adam mentioned that he'd spoken with his father earlier in the day.
”I called to give him Easter greetings,” Adam said. ”He sounded good.” Pause. ”Have you talked to him lately?”
”No,” I said. ”I owe him a call.” It shouldn't work that way. Tom and I weren't teenagers. ”I'll call him sometime this coming week.”
”I think he's going out of town,” Adam said. ”Business, as usual.”
”Business, babies, blah-blah,” I said, trying to sound humorous and failing. ”That's your dear old dad. Meanwhile, dear old mom waits. And waits.”
”No comment.”
”None needed,” I responded. After more than a quarter of a century, there wasn't much left to say about Tom Cavanaugh.
Ben wasn't in at the rectory on the Navajo reservation, so I left a message. I was unpacking my suitcase when I heard the sirens. As ever, I went on the alert. Anytime an emergency vehicle takes off in Alpine, it's news. An auto accident, a domestic violence call, even a heart attack usually makes it into The Advocate.
I'd just put the suitcase in the closet when I heard more sirens. A decade of experience enabled me to distinguish between the wails of the various emergency vehicles. The first had belonged to one of the sheriff's squad cars. The second had been the medics. Both had headed west.
A third siren sounded, fainter and farther away. It was Milo's personal siren, the one in his Grand Cherokee. He had special-ordered it from Harvey's Hardware, and Harvey Adc.o.c.k had made a mistake and ended up with a British police siren that sounds to me like a dying duck. Milo, however, professed to like it. Maybe it made him feel as if he were working for Scotland Yard.
The siren grew somewhat louder, apparently coming from the sheriff's house in the Icicle Creek development. He was also heading west. Whatever had happened must be important enough to draw Milo from his Sunday rest.
I put my shoes back on and grabbed my jacket. There was no time to phone Scott Chamoud, who might not be back from Oregon anyway. Calling to Amber that I was off on a story, I raced out to the car. Yet another siren sounded as I reached Alpine Way. The fire truck was ahead of me, rus.h.i.+ng south, then turning left on Railroad Avenue past Old Mill Park.
It was going on eight o'clock, but not quite dark. It was easy to follow the number one engine past the community college, the ski-lodge turnoff, and onto the Burl Creek Road. A minute later the fire truck stopped, joining the squad car, the medics van, and Milo's Grand Cherokee.
We'd arrived at Cap Harquist's place, with its aging two-story house all but hidden behind a pair of huge cedars that must have prevented the sunlight from getting inside. I'd always wondered why the Harquists had let those trees block not only the sun, but their view of Burl Creek and the mountains beyond. Perhaps the cedars were like the ramparts of a castle: not arboreal decorations, but strategic fortifications.
Cautiously, I approached the tight little knot of emergency personnel. I didn't see Milo, but Deputy Jack Mullins was talking to one of the volunteer firefighters whose face I couldn't recognize under all the official gear.
”Emma,” Jack said, turning to face me. ”How'd you hear about the commotion?”
”How could I not?” I replied as the red, blue, and white lights flashed eerily in the dusk. ”I followed the sirens' call. What's going on?”
Jack gestured toward the house. ”Milo let Ozzie and Rudy out this morning so they could go to church for Easter. Which they did. Lutheran church, that is.” Jack gave me his roguish grin. He's a fellow Catholic, the type who's not above making cracks about our Protestant brethren. ”Then they came home and started drinking. The next thing we know, they're prowling around outside the hospital. Stubby O'Neill is still there, you know.”
I nodded. ”Milo kept me informed while I was out of town.”
”Oh. I didn't know you'd left,” Jack said. ”Our family went to the vigil Ma.s.s last night. I figured you were going this morning. Father Den's sermon sucked scissors, but everything else was great.”
Dennis Kelly, our pastor, isn't famous for his homilies. A serious, middle-aged black man in an almost exclusively white parish, he's an excellent administrator and no one can criticize his handling of the liturgy itself. These days, we're lucky to have a priest at all, and downright blessed that our pastor isn't drinking himself stupid or playing games with little boys. Father Den can be dry as dust from the pulpit and elicit no carping from me.
”So what happened at the hospital?” I inquired, hearing some shouts from closer to the house.
Jack turned somber. ”Stubby's daughter, Meara, came to see him this evening. The Harquist boys kidnapped her. They've got her inside and G.o.d only knows what's going on. Doc Dewey called us. He was leaving the hospital when he saw Ozzie and Rudy drive off with her about half an hour ago.”
My eyes were riveted on what little I could see of the Harquist house. ”That's bad. Who else is in there?”
”Ozzie, Rudy, Cap,” Jack counted. ”Old Lady Har-quist's been dead for years. I don't know about Ozzie and Rudy's wives. The last I heard, Rudy's walked out on him and moved to Everett.”
”So no women on hand to provide a softening influence,” I murmured. ”Why don't you and Milo and whoever else is here go in?”
”Because they're holding Meara hostage,” Jack replied. ”She's only fifteen. The poor kid must be scared out of her wits.”
”Hostage for what? Do they want ransom money?”
Jack shook his head. ”Who knows what those dingbats want? They're probably still drunk. Milo's trying to get to Cap. He figures he may have more sense than the sons.” Hearing the screech of tires, Jack whirled around. ”Oh, s.h.i.+t! Here come the O'Neills.”
A beat-up SUV revealed Stubby O'Neill's two younger brothers, known as Rusty and Dusty. They flew out of the vehicle and started yelling, mostly obscenities directed at the Harquists.
Jack hurried over in an attempt to get Rusty and Dusty to simmer down. I could see why his manner was urgent. Rusty held a double-barreled shotgun and Dusty had what looked like a Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver. I backpedaled a few steps, seeking safety behind a Douglas fir.
”Mullins!” Rusty yelled. ”Move it! We don't want no trouble with you.”
”h.e.l.l, no,” Dusty agreed. ”You're a mick, too. We want them Scandahoovians.”
”Sorry, me lads,” Jack responded, his right hand drifting toward his gun. ”You're going to have to stay put. The sheriff has this thing under control.”
I glanced toward the house. Even without his regulation Smokey the Bear hat, at six-foot-five, Milo loomed at least a couple of inches above everybody else. He was standing at the foot of the stairs that lead up to the front porch. I could hear him shouting, but couldn't make out the words. Jack's a.s.sertion that the sheriff had things under control struck me as fanciful. Especially when I saw flames at the near-side windows on the second floor.
A piercing scream tore across the night air. Everyone seemed to freeze, then Milo took off around the other side of the house. I lost sight of him, but heard him yell something to the firemen, who sprang into action. A moment later they were carrying a round blue safety net in Milo's direction. Two other firefighters were hauling hoses to the part of the house where the fire had broken out. The medics followed the safety net.
I could smell the smoke and hear the crackling as the flames licked at dry old wood. The sky, which had finally grown dark, now took on an ominous ocherous glow. Cursing myself for not remembering to bring a camera, I fumbled for the notebook in my purse and began scribbling furiously. My nerves were becoming unraveled. I doubted that I'd ever be able to decipher my disjointed handwriting.
Nearby, Rusty and Dusty were arguing with Jack, who was trying to keep the two men from charging into the house.
”Meara's in there,” Dusty shouted. ”Do something!”
”We're doing it,” Jack replied, giving some sort of signal to Dwight Gould, another deputy, who had a.s.sumed Milo's vacated position by the front porch.
Another scream pierced the air. It was female, I was sure of that. Thus it was probably Meara O'Neill. Pray, I commanded myself. Help her, G.o.d. Help all these idiots who've made such an unG.o.dly mess.
The medics had rushed back to get their gurney. Jack shouted a warning as Rusty and Dusty hurtled past him. Dwight Gould whirled around, his own weapon raised. A figure came running through the front door, knocking Dwight to the ground. In the light of the fire, I recognized one of the Harquists. I could never tell Ozzie from Rudy, who were both six-footers, well over two hundred pounds, with no necks.
Milo reappeared at a run from around the corner of the house. ”Halt!” he ordered, both hands on his King Cobra magnum. ”Drop your weapons, everybody!”
Another figure came tearing out of the house. It was the other Harquist son, and he was also armed. As his brother and the two O'Neills hesitated, he turned, stumbled on the top step, and fired.
Milo went down.
The next female scream was mine.
”Jesus, you dumbs.h.i.+t!” the other Harquist shouted. ”You shot the freaking sheriff!”