Home Everlasting (Holliday Book 3) Read online

  "I can name one thing you aren’t in, but this is quite a predicament, isn't it?" she asked, chuckling. She took out her phone and typed out a message, telling him he could use it to tell her anything he wanted, in case Holt was listening, either inadvertently or on purpose.

  He looked at it and typed a message, then kept the phone. "I think everything will be fine. I've resolved myself to letting whatever happen, happen. The evidence isn't really on the side of the prosecution on this one."

  She shrugged. "You're right. Whatever happens, I guess happens." They sat in silence, not sure what else to say. "I wanna go on a real date when this is all over," she said finally.

  "Yeah. I was thinking we'd go dancing, probably in some dive, where dancing isn't a sport as much as like, a way to get over it all. Ya know?"

  "Yeah, that's exactly the sort of dancing we need!"

  "And then maybe a down home dinner. Steak."

  "I might just butcher the cow myself," she said, chuckling. "And then back to your house? I'm just waiting for whatever happens when we're finally alone, ya know?"

  "When I finally get my hands all over you?"

  "Something like that. Maybe I'm the one who's getting handsy."

  He grabbed her hands from across the table. "Nah, too late. But actually, going back to my place seems like a bad idea. Seems that someone, possibly a friend of Ricky's trashed it all. Wrote Holliday across the side of it in some sorta red paint, too."

  She slid her hands out of his, aghast and disturbed by the news. "When did this happen?"

  "Holt just found out about it today. It's looking pretty bad. I don't think I have clothes anymore," he said, sighing.

  "After you go dancing, you won't need clothes," she whispered.

  "I don't think insurance is gonna cover all of it," he muttered. "Oh well. What's done is done."

  "Do you regret turning Ricky in?"

  "Never. I did the right thing, and that's all that matters," he said with finality.

  The door opened and Holt walked in, staring at Lilith as if she'd committed a mortal sin. "I don't give a shit what your name is Lilith, but when I say, don't talk about the house, I meant it. All the love stuff is kinda gross and disgusting cause I remember when you were a baby, but at least it ain't Clark's fuckin’ open investigation."

  "I'm sorry Sheriff," she said, getting up.

  "Yeah, you'd better get on outta here. I gotta put this guy back in his cell, anyway."

  Clark got up, leaving Lilith's phone in the middle of the table. She waited until Holt had put on Clark's handcuffs and led him out before grabbing it and following them into the main office. She nodded at Holt's deputies, and walked out of the office and into the late afternoon sunlight. She had been inside the Sheriff's office way longer than she'd imagined.

  She braved the heat inside her truck, rolling down the windows and proceeding down the road. It had been amazing to see Clark. More than amazing. His eyes, his scruffiness, the way he smelled. Everything was the same, everything was there that made it possible to love him.

  And the mountains were home. The sunlight drifting across the river, through the clouds that moved ever so slowly across the sky. She shifted into higher gear, letting the engine roar through the canyons, the tires squealing their joy to be let loose on the roads, as much as she had been let loose in seeing Clark.

  Her great grandfather, the man who almost bankrupted and lost the property, might have decreed that she stay on the ranch till the end of her days, but at least Clark, her love for him, was still hers to take, hers to control, hers to love.

  The long gravel road was in sight, and the crunch of gravel underneath her tires was the sound of coming home. She rumbled up and parked. Mulreedy was sure to message her when her father came back to consciousness, but until then she still had work to do. She had the ranch to take care of, and seeing Clark had made it all that much more bearable.

  She got out of her truck and checked her phone, finally seeing the message that Clark had left for her. She realized it was short and simple: I love you. She put the phone back in her pocket, an extra spring appearing in her step as she bounded up the steps, forgetting that her father had laid on them just days before, and went upstairs to do her job: running her ranch.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Being named executor of the estate, even for the short term, had increased Mulreedy's already incessant need for a smoke. He had gone through several packs of cigarettes in the few hours after Neederlander had read the will, and the cold sweat he woke up with later that night was even worse.

  Growing up in the mountains, in a pretty poor family, he had never had the responsibility of the large ranchers, the medium sized farmers, or even those with businesses. His father, a raging alcoholic who smoked a pipe rather than cigarettes, came home after working on a ranch to a bottle of cheap brandy, and ranted against his boss, the government, and Mulreedy's mother, who loved nothing more than to in with her own bottle of whiskey.

  Growing up without the responsibility, the birthright, had given him an empty perspective of what others he knew had. Saul, even in middle school, knew where he stood on his future, while all Mulreedy could do was create his own fortunes. And he did, with medical school and loving his patients.

  He stood in the lobby of Beartooth General, nodding at the incoming nurses and patrons, his trigger finger itching his shirt pocket where he had stowed a fresh pack. He gave into the urge and fled outside, stalking past the disapproving stares of the nurses and other doctors. He didn't care that he was setting a bad example, this was a bad time, dammit. Especially considering that Saul still hadn't opened his eyes.

  The scans showed that it might have been a massive stroke. The kid's diagnosis was not only wrong, but it was incomplete. He was more than ready to say that it was cancer related, and when he came out of it, he would have to twist Saul's arm about the chemo. Saul should have started it a while ago, and this is what happened when people ignored his orders.

  The warm smoke, the smell, the feeling of the filter against his tongue, it was all he needed to calm down. He stared across the parking lot, realizing that Lilith probably didn't need him to be the executor, she was probably on the ranch right now, fixing things and ordering the boys around. She had always had a penchant for that.

  An ambulance drove through the parking lot, taking its time to get to the entrance. It was probably empty, but the looks on the driver and his colleague's face told a different story. Whoever was back there was dead. He knew both of them, Gary and Harry, the rhyming names of the town's paramedics. They did it all before the doctors had to swing in at Beartooth General, and most of the town was thankful for it.

  "Doc," said Harry, brushing his ashen brown hair out of his eyes and rolling down the window of the ambulance. "We got something here for ya."

  "Pretty grueseome too, Doc," chimed in Gary, hopping out and walking to the back. He popped open the doors, swinging them dramatically open and pointed to the corpse that lay inside. "Neederlander said this was a special delivery for you."

  Mulreedy pocketed his spent cigarette butt and lit another one as he looked at the remains of Aggie Holliday's father, still dressed in his suit, but with barely any flesh left on his body. Neederlander must have called Marty and gotten the exact location, seeing as there was no way Gary and Larry could have found it on their own. The ambulance couldn't drive through the hills either. Maybe they carried him all the way across the South Pasture. "And what the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

  "Not really sure, but he's all yours now. Pretty nice pocket watch he's got, maybe you could keep it as a fee," said Gary, lighting his own cigarette. "I can tell ya, this is the strangest call we've gotten by far. And really, we've seen some pretty fuckin' strange things."

  Harry helped Gary pull the stretcher off the back and wheel it inside. A room had been set up for the autopsy. The town was small enough that there was no forensics team, not that there could be that much forensics at this point, with
the body having been dead for over a hundred years. Mulreedy stared after them, wondering how fate had landed him in this position.

  The man who had almost bankrupted the ranch was in the same hospital, in the same century, as a man who was battling for his life, which had been spent preserving the land. It was an odd twist, but Mulreedy decided that he had to at least try and see what he could find out about the man's death, if anything. Maybe he could find some hair to do some DNA matching.

  He pocketed his cigarette butt, noting that his pocket had become an ashtray, and walked inside, praying that Saul would wake up soon so that he wouldn't have to help Lilith make any decisions. Especially about more mining on the property.

  ~~~

  Holt's team had swung into action after the discovery of Dolmat's oil soaked rag in Clark's house. There weren't any fingerprints on the doorknobs, any clues in the ashes, and no paintbrush left at the scene of the crime, but the rag had reinvigorated everyone into believing that Clark was indeed innocent.

  He had, had a hard time convincing Judge Henrik that this clue was important, and had to deal with the judge yelling at him for an hour about the coincidental nature of the hypothesis that the Dolmat's or someone connected to the Dolmat's, or even someone who had recently visited the Dolmat's had broken into Clark's house to try and frame him. And Holt had to admit, it was all pretty thin. But he had broken through cases with less evidence and more obstruction, in less time.

  He tipped his hat to Clark on his way out of the office, trying to tell him without telling him that he was, in fact, trying to exonerate him of the charges. Sometimes, when he looked at someone, he just knew they were innocent. Maybe it was an old lawman's gut talking, but old lawmen had been around the block a few times, and they definitely knew something. Sometimes they knew the wrong things, he had to admit, but usually not so much.

  He hopped into his cruiser, and headed towards Jim Dolmat's shop. He had graduated high school with Dolmat's older sister. Well, he chuckled to himself, he had graduated in Dolmat's older sister. And the last time he had seen Jim was at her funeral, many years ago. She had led a hard life after high school, getting married several times, raising a multitude of children, and ultimately succumbing to breast cancer. So at least he had a way to start a conversation with Jim.

  Holt had a penchant for being sly. He didn't like questioning people head on, because he found they simply didn't like being asked blunt questions. It caught them off guard. So he tried to have a conversation instead.

  He pulled into Dolmat's parking lot, immediately noticing Dolmat and his oldest son inspecting a car on the lift together. It was a good sight to see, father and son doing work. That's what kept them out of trouble. Hopefully the kid would take over the shop one day, and Holt would be able to see the town continue on, nearly unchanged.

  He hopped out of his cruiser, and waved to Jim who stepped away and joined him in the parking lot.

  "Sheriff, what can I do for ya?" Jim said, rubbing his dirty hands with an even dirtier rag. Holt could see Dolmat's name and business stamped on the rag, just like the one he found in Clark's house.

  "Just passin' by, had a few questions for ya. But how's your nieces and nephews? I was thinking about Sally the other day. Drove by the cemetery on the way to a call and stuff," he replied, peering over Jim's shoulder and making note of David's consistent and constant stare.

  "They're fine. Been missin' Sally myself, ya know. Older sister and all. But it is what it is. I do what I can to help them out, but their father doesn't seem to like me very much."

  "I can imagine that's troubling. Hey lemme ask you, have you heard anything strange about this Ricky case?" Holt asked, trying to ease into the questioning at hand. That was always the hardest part, the segue.

  "Ricky was a goddamn bastard, if that's what you mean."

  "Nah, I meant, have you heard any murmurings about who mighta done it, ya know, the talk about the town," replied Holt. He noticed that David was still intently staring at him. Maybe he was staring at them. Or maybe he was staring at his father. It was getting disconcerting.

  "All I heard was that Clark did it, and now Ricky's friends are goin' after him. They're probably gonna run him outta town."

  "Well, if Clark did it, he's going to jail," responded Holt. "Look, I'm sayin'. I'm hintin' that I might be casting the net a little wider. I found some evidence that may suggest there are some others behind it all. Maybe he was framed, ya know what I'm saying?"

  Holt noticed it just as he spoke his almost fallacious theory. There wasn't any clear evidence that Clark was framed, and so there shouldn't have been any reaction. But Jim gulped and his eyes shifted to the floor, almost imperceptibly. His hands twitched, and then he placed them in his pockets, the rag falling on the ground. He ignored it and looked back up to Holt. "I haven't heard anything about that Sheriff. But if I hear anything, if anyone says anything, I'll let you know," he said hurriedly, his voice straining.

  "Yeah, I suppose you will. You sure there isn't anything you wanna talk to me about?" Holt asked, quietly, trying not to sound too brusque. He could feel that he was onto something, that Jim had something to tell him.

  "No, I think we're done," said Jim, averting his eyes and turning back towards his shop. "I gotta get this car done before old man Tony comes over and starts yellin’ at me."

  Holt nodded and hopped back into his cruiser. "Alright, say hey to the nieces and nephews. And maybe if you wanna come by Sally's grave with me sometime, I'd love to say hello to the ole girl."

  Jim nodded and gave a slight wave as he walked to the shop. David had finally turned away and gone back to work.

  Holt pulled out of the parking lot, knowing finally that there was something fishy going on and Clark couldn't have been the killer. Maybe he should have asked Dolmat about Keith. Was Keith in on this? Keith was in on everything. It was always surprising what the smallest of clues could do to a case. Maybe Keith planted it?

  His radio cracked loudly as a message came through. "Sheriff, you got a message from Judge Henrik. He says there was a break in at his house, and he's specifically requesting you to come out and take a look."

  Holt picked up the mic. "Roger that, I'm on it." He flipped the lights on and sped through town and onto the side roads, nearly flying past cars as he raced towards Henrik's house. It was bad luck to rob a judge's house.

  As he raced through the backroads, passing tree lined side streets and winding mountain roads, he wondered if his deputies had found out anything about Ricky's cashed checks. The money trail was interesting, and quite frankly one of the most important pieces to getting Clark exonerated. The boys had been checking all the local and not so local cash checking establishments. Since Judge Henrik still hadn't signed a warrant saying they could search some of the check cashing services, they had to get by with basic questions. Apparently, there had been other things on the Judge's mind.

  Holt pulled onto the gravel road that led up to Henrik's house, the loose gravel crunching under the tires and drowning out his thoughts. But as he pulled up he heard the crack of a rifle. And then another. He stepped onto the gas, the gravel kicking up behind his tires, as he sped towards Henrik's house.

  As he finally approached, he saw Henrik standing on his porch, his rifle pointed out towards the woods. He parked and jumped out of his car, his sidearm cocked and in his hand, his hat forgotten in the passenger seat, as he ran up to defend the Judge. "Henrik what's going on?" he yelled, as he bounded up the steps to the porch.

  "Hm?" said Henrik, turning around. "I thought I saw that rascal out there, with my boots, just runnin' away. Tauntin' me."

  "With your boots?" Holt asked, huffing and puffing from the exertion.

  "Yeah, someone stole my boots. Left a note and everything. That's why I called you," said Henrik, letting his rifle hang at his side. He coughed and pointed the way inside the house.

  "What are you talking about? You called me all the way out here, I raced all the way out here. Becaus
e someone stole your boots? How do you even know?" Holt had fallen forward, his hands clasping his knees, his chest heaving. He hadn't had this much exercise in a long time.

  "You weren't listenin’ Holt. They left a goddamn note." Henrik led the way inside. His house was a massive mountain chalet, with beautiful recessed lighting in the ceilings, burnished wood, and elk trophies adoring many of the walls. Holt had been there enough times that the massiveness of the chalet had worn off, and it seemed more a place for Henrik to assuage his own ego, rather than actually live.

  But Henrik had made his fortune free and clear of any law issues, and won the local election fair and square. He was a good man, even if he had gaudy tastes. Holt followed him past the expansive kitchen, the gleam and glitter was too much to handle, past living rooms and dining rooms, into Henrik's study, and past all that to his very private dressing room. It had a majestic view of the mountains from several large floor to ceiling windows. Whoever was out there could definitely see Henrik dressing everyday. And that wasn’t a pleasant thought.

  "Right here, it happened right here," said Henrik, pointing to a rack of boots and slippers at the bottom of the window. "You see, this space, that's where they sat." He waved his arms around an empty spot between a pair of ostrich boots and velvet slippers.

  "Alright, and you said there was a note?"

  "Yeah, here," he said, taking out a piece of paper and handing it to Holt.

  "Alright," said Holt, unfolding it. "To Whom It May Concern, your boots have been taken and will be returned as soon as you decide to make the right decision in your upcoming case. If you do not comply, the fate of these boots will prognosticate your own fate." Finished, Holt looked up at Henrik quizzically. "They gonna destroy your boots? Kidnap your boots? And then kill you?"

  "Fuckin' sounds like it, doesn't it?"

  "Well, it's very vague, and how can we know what case they're talking about?"

  "I didn't call you here for you to be confused Holt! I called you here to get down to business! Do your cop thing! Get down to the bottom of this. My life is on the line!" said Henrik, waving his arms in the air. He looked out his window. "Somewhere out there, someone wants to kill me!"