The Deposit Slip

46





Jessie was up early, finalizing Jared’s trial notebook, when her phone rang.

“Yes?”

It was Mrs. Finstrude. “I’ve got it. I found a check from Sara Larson.”

Jessie hadn’t even seen or spoken with Jared since her encounter with the elderly woman the night before; he’d already left the farmhouse when she returned from the drugstore. That was fine. She wasn’t sure it was a good idea to mention this until she saw if it produced any useful evidence. Jared’s roller coaster ride on this case made it difficult enough for him to prepare for trial. He didn’t need any more false hopes.

“Can you read me the account number?”

She heard Mrs. Finstrude calling to her husband, asking whether he had her reading glasses. Then she was back on the line. She read the number.

Jessie jotted it down and thanked Shelby for her help. As soon as she set down the phone, she opened the trial notebook to Exhibit 1: a photocopy of the deposit slip.

As Jessie traced the numbers she had written on her pad against those on the photocopy, she felt like she was scanning a potential winning lottery ticket.

The first three numbers matched; the next three also.

She dropped the phone and screamed aloud in the empty farmhouse.





Jared couldn’t believe the words Jessie had just uttered. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m on my way now to pick up the check from Shelby.”

Jared’s mind raced like an uncoupled locomotive. They had the account. And it was an Ashley State Bank account.

He wondered why this possibility hadn’t occurred to him before. The farmer had used the number for his wife’s old personal checking account, perhaps the account they used for household costs. Was it sentiment? A good luck charm? Perhaps, Jared thought. But he thought it was more than that. He had a sense of Paul Larson. The farmer had kept this money because he believed he deserved it—for what he had suffered in the war, and the crippling loss of the wife he loved. Using her account to store the money was just the right thing to do. An affirmation of his belief, hope, that she would approve.

With an account number, they had the necessary proof that the bank received the money. They still didn’t have proof of the critical element that the bank retained the money—that Paul Larson didn’t remove the money sometime after its deposit. But in view of Grant’s lies about receiving the funds in the first place, there was a fair chance they could convince the jury Grant was lying on this point as well.

“Jessie, send notice to Whittier that Shelby Finstrude is a new witness on our list. Then retrieve the check and produce a copy to Whittier immediately. Tell them it’s our new Exhibit 2.”





At dawn, Marcus listened to the chirping of birds in the pines and ash surrounding the cabin and wondered how much longer he could go with only a few hours of rest each night. Even the mild sedatives he’d been taking since returning from New York had grown impotent to bring him sleep.

He knew Proctor had warned him not to call again following their conversation last night, but each hour the vacuum of communication grew more agonizing.

Whittier was now staying at a motel in Mission Falls and commuting each day to Marcus’s cabin to prepare for trial. Marcus was helping plan the defense, but knew that Whittier could sense his distraction and indifference.

The fact was that the bank could still win this lawsuit. The Spangler statement fell far short of the evidence Neaton needed to actually prevail. Still, Grant was right: they could not try this case, though for reasons of which the man was unaware.

Marcus still had told no one about the subpoena seeking the Paisley trust account. Too many people at Paisley knew about the settlement and the unusual and secretive measures Marcus had insisted upon in the matter—including personally depositing the settlement check into the trust account. He’d be unable to hide the evidence if it came out at trial. Questions would circulate, and someone at the firm would eventually press for more information.

Marcus rose and padded through the silent house to the kitchen. He poured himself some orange juice and then sat at the large dining room table, now strewn with deposition transcripts, document notebooks, and legal research printouts.

Whittier was in the loop about the VA money, but knew few details—including how Marcus had cashed the Veterans Administration check through the Paisley trust account. The junior partner had no information about Anthony Carlson in Washington, or the man’s recruitment to prevent government audits from detecting the accidental overpayment of funds to Paul Larson.

All Whittier really knew was that Marcus was helping Grant to keep an overpayment on a VA check issued to Paul Larson, following the farmer’s death. And of course Whittier knew that his share of the proceeds was five hundred thousand dollars and a guaranteed recommendation for partnership. It was a sum twice that due to Carlson.

The sun now began reflecting off the ice on the lake visible through the picture window. Marcus walked closer to the glass, orange juice in hand, to admire it. But today it failed to move him.

Once he’d made the decision to hire Proctor, he thought this would all sit easier. Some moments it did. Other times his ambivalence tortured him until he longed for the act to be irrevocably done to banish the specters of doubt.

Whittier and Grant could not know about Proctor or what was about to occur. Marcus wouldn’t allow anyone else into that innermost circle of knowledge. It was not shame, he insisted to himself, but simple pragmatism. They might suspect when it was all done, but no one could be certain.

He finished the orange juice and set the glass on a corner desk to the right of the window. Each day he followed the same interminable pattern. After Whittier arrived around nine o’clock, they prepped for trial until late afternoon, when the junior partner finally left. Too unsettled to prepare his own meals, Marcus drove to Mission Falls for supper, returning in the early evening. Then the wait would begin again for some word from Proctor Hamilton that this agony was finally over. Until, in the early morning hours, Marcus would finally crawl into bed for another sleepless night.

Marcus looked at his watch. Eight o’clock in the morning. Whittier would be here within an hour. Another long day of waiting.





Richard Towers’s Honda Accord offered a new rattle as he drove down Main Street in downtown Ashley. Sounded like the muffler this time. But then his mechanical skills ranked just below his prowess with computers and all things technical. He’d have it looked at when he got back to St. Paul.

The echo of four church gongs sounded the hour. Richard had told Mr. Neaton he’d arrive in the early afternoon, so he was running a little late.

Despite a thickening of the falling snow, the street was busy. Students recently out from school wandered in packs in and out of storefronts, letter jackets and parkas predominating. Richard glanced quickly at the directions Jared had given him.

He must have missed the turn. At the next stop sign, Richard rolled to a stop, then cranked the steering wheel to the right, searching for a spot to review his directions more carefully.

As he completed the turn, he passed a truck parked near the intersection, directly in front of an American Legion Hall. Richard saw the driver behind the wheel, a gaunt man with a dark green John Deere hat.

Moments later, a tan sedan rolled past as Richard pulled into an open spot a few parking spaces farther ahead of the truck. Richard placed the Accord in park and picked up the directions sheet. He reread them carefully, trying to retrace where he had deviated from the instructions.

A man dressed in a dark jacket and slacks sidled past on the sidewalk to the right. The man’s chin was set back, his gait straight. His clothes were rough and unpressed. His boots were stained with mud, but his hands were clean and his face smooth.

Richard saw where he’d likely missed his turn. He reached for the shift lever to put the car back in Drive, casting a glance to his right hand side-view mirror.

The darkly dressed man was now passing within inches of the truck he’d observed in front of the Legion Hall. A quick look in the rearview mirror showed the truck empty, but the pedestrian had stopped and was peering into the back seat of the truck.

Richard did a U-turn and drove slowly back to the stop sign, planning to retrace his route on Main Street until he found the turn he’d missed. Stopped at the intersection, Richard noted the pedestrian now standing at the corner, to his left. The man stood a moment longer, then turned abruptly around and started walking back in the direction from which he’d come.

As Richard turned left onto Main Street, he felt the familiar discomfort again. Only this one did not play cat and mouse at the edge of his awareness. Why was a man scrubbed for a dress parade wearing clothes for the field? Where had he been so recently that the mud still caked his boots? What was this man with unmistakable military bearing looking for in the truck?

Richard shrugged it off—incongruous observations of matters irrelevant to him were a daily experience, sometimes several times a day. He was used to accepting that he’d usually never know the why of his observations, only the what.

He spun the wheel to the left and drove on toward the Neaton house.

Five minutes later, he pulled in front of the tiny one-story home at the end of the cul-de-sac described by Jared Neaton. There were no cars in the driveway. Richard checked the address again before walking to the front door and knocking.

No one responded. He peered in through the living room window, confirming no one was around.

He checked his watch. It was closing in on four thirty. Jared had given him alternative directions to the Larson farm if he arrived too late to meet at the house. The snow was quickening, but Richard hoped to spend at least a few minutes with Jared and his trial team this afternoon and evening to share some of his thoughts and offer any help he could.

He slipped the envelope containing his bill and report into the mailbox, along with a separate envelope containing the Larson phone records his contact had finally delivered. Then he returned to his car and looked over the directions. They said it was only about a twenty-five minute drive to the farm from here. He’d confirm his reservation at the motel and then drive out to the farm. He should make it back into town by seven, hopefully before the worst of the storm settled in.





“You sure you got it?” Carlos asked, walking at Jared’s side, watching him push a wheelchair through the growing piles of slush on the sidewalk from the VA Hospital to the parking lot.

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Jared answered.

Jared looked up in frustration at the snow, beginning to fall with greater urgency. He had a full two-hour drive if the weather continued to worsen, on slick country roads.

The veteran had on his “bionic” leg and walked fairly well, though carefully through the wet snow. The nurse had insisted they bring the wheelchair to limit Carlos’s fatigue while he stayed at the farmhouse for his prep session. The plan was for Carlos to stay the night; then Jessie would drive him back to the VA Hospital in the morning.

Jared opened the back to his CR-V, surveyed the space for a second, and began shifting things around to make room for the wheelchair.

“That what I think it is?” Carlos asked when he pulled out a canvas case.

Jared nodded. “My old .22 and some ammo. Erin said my dad could do some target shooting at the farm this weekend, and he was so excited he put it in my trunk a couple of days ago.”

The wheelchair fit, but barely. Carlos headed toward the passenger side while Jared slid behind the wheel.

As he got into the car, Jared thought back to the advice Clay had given him before his first trial. “By the time a good attorney finishes his trial preparation,” Clay had said, “he is usually convinced of the justice of his case, and equally convinced that any fair-minded jury will agree with him. It doesn’t matter how bad the case really is, or if he’s the only person so certain. A good advocate, once prepared, must believe in the case he is about to present—or no one else will.”

Jared thought he was at that place now. Though there still were moments when doubts came crashing through, most of the time he felt amazed at how far they’d progressed. The discovery of the account number had to mean victory.

As he started the car, Jared saw how thickly the flakes had accumulated on his windshield. The wipers could still push it aside, but at this rate the visibility was going to be limited, and he’d have to take it slow. Hopefully Erin was already back from Minneapolis after picking up Cory at the airport.

He backed up, glancing at the car clock. It was nearly six o’clock, fully dark, and the car was buffeted by growing gusts of wind. Jared grimaced once more before gingerly maneuvering the CR-V out of the VA Hospital lot for the long drive to Erin’s farm.





Jessie looked out the kitchen window as headlights emerged from the blanket of white that obscured everything more than one hundred feet from the side of the house. The car stopped, the lights went out, and Erin emerged from the driver’s side.

The young woman getting out of the passenger door must be Cory. They pulled a red backpack from the car trunk and then slipped and slid the short distance to the side entrance into the kitchen.

“It’s awful out there,” Erin said as she removed her coat. She stomped the clumps of snow from her boots in the entryway and then made introductions.

Cory’s cheeks were flushed from the wind and cold outside. Jessie thought she looked even younger than her twenty-one years. She was dressed in clothes more appropriate for touring southern Europe than the arrival of a Minnesota winter.

Seeing her in person, Jessie was drawn back to Jared’s description of their time in Athens. She wondered how Cory had processed the truth about the threats told to her by Mrs. Huddleston. Was she angry at Jared? Frightened? If she was concerned about the risk of testifying, Jessie saw no signs of it in her face or eyes.

After Cory had shed her coat and boots near the door, Erin led her through the kitchen into the living room, toward the staircase leading to her second-floor guestroom while Jessie returned to preparing supper. She heard the rising howl as the wind began to gust. Already Erin’s car was disappearing under growing piles of wet snow, and the forecast called for the winds to pick up as the night got colder, freezing the snow on the roads.

Jared was supposed to be here within the hour, but she wondered how long it would really take him to make it. It was a good night to be indoors, safe and sound.





The road looked familiar—but then all these country roads were starting to look familiar—two lanes covered with white. Visibility was down to a hundred feet or so. Richard wished again he knew how to use the GPS on his cell phone.

He’d been roaming these roads for nearly an hour now. The sun was fully gone and no stars or moon were visible through the low, heavy clouds overhead. He’d considered calling Jared or Jessie to guide him in, but what would they tell him when he could see no landmarks? As much as he’d hoped to make it to the Larson farm tonight, perhaps it was time to turn around and try to find his way back to Ashley.

A car emerged from the white cloud ahead, moving fast. Then it was past, spraying a mix of slush and snow across the slapping wipers of the Accord. The car, visible in Richard’s headlights for only a moment, seemed faintly familiar.

He drove another quarter of a mile, then came to a T intersection with a road to his right. Richard turned onto the road, hoping this might lead to the Larson driveway.

A few hundred yards down this turnoff, he passed a truck parked at an angle on the opposite side of the road, resting partially in the shallow ditch. Another hundred yards beyond the truck and the Accord headlamps shone on fencing bordering a small turnabout. A dead end.

Richard turned the car around. As he approached the truck in the ditch once more, he slowed. The vehicle was disappearing under mounting snow, but its hood remained nearly dry. It must have been driven recently, he thought. Then he realized where he’d seen the truck before, or one like it, in front of the Legion Hall.

It was the same color; looked like the same model. Richard pulled up alongside the vehicle and rolled down his passenger window. The truck windows were nearly covered over with snow, but it appeared empty.

The snow underfoot was slippery as Richard walked across the front of his Accord toward the parked truck. He brushed aside the snow clinging to the driver’s side window and shone a penlight from his key chain onto the seat. There was nothing there. He did the same to the back windows.

A John Deere hat was visible on the back seat. It rested on an unzipped, empty gun case.

The wind tugged at his coat, and Richard felt the cold keenly. He quickly retreated to the warmth of his car.

Why would a hunter be out on a night like this? Richard looked around in the darkness. The visibility was too poor to see any distance, but the shadow of tall woods loomed across the field on the far side of the parked truck.

The car that passed earlier . . . in the momentary flash of his headlights, Richard had an impression that it was tan. The same color as the car that passed him before the pedestrian appeared at the Legion Hall.

Worried at the accumulating snow, Richard put the Accord in Drive and drove slowly back to the T intersection—where he turned left to retrace his route to Ashley.

The Larson farm had proven too elusive to find in this snowstorm, but Richard knew that he had to be within a mile or so. The hunter. The tan car.

The connections were so vague—like pieces so different they seemed unlikely to fit the same puzzle. He drove on, pondering what he should do.





Erin, Jessie, and Cory finished their dinner of leftovers. Cory spent the meal telling about her trip—particularly her week in Venice and working her way down the coast of Italy.

While Erin and Cory cleared the dishes to the sink, Jessie put on her coat and gathered the full trash bag to carry to the bin across the driveway.

It was growing colder, the snow less wet and the flakes smaller. As the wind gusts snapped at her hair, Jessie felt the touch of the flakes drifting onto her eyelashes and melting as they brushed her cheeks. She looked across the fence at the brown fields that had disappeared under a cushion of snow. It was supposed to be warmer in a few days, and all this could be melted. But fall was losing the struggle, and she knew that soon enough these fields would be knee deep in the permanent white cover of winter.

Jessie tossed the garbage bag into the bin and replaced the cover. As she turned to walk back, she thought she saw movement in the trees, just visible beyond the edge of the house, where the woods of the windbreak ascended the hill into darkness.

A deer, she thought. Each morning their tracks crossed the farmyard in the frost, mixed with rabbit prints and beaver. It made her feel like she slept in a menagerie. She stood a moment longer in the cold, hoping to catch a glimpse of the animal coming out of the trees. But there was no more movement.

Jessie returned to the kitchen door and stepped back inside, shivering in the welcome warmth.

“I think I saw a deer,” she called to Erin standing at the sink.

“That’s not too unusual.”

“Not for you, maybe,” Jessie said with a smile.

They finished the dishes together and then retreated to the living room, now deep in papers and boxes. Cory excused herself for an early bedtime. Her fatigue showed in dark rings beneath her eyes and a fading voice, and they said good night. Jared didn’t plan to work with her until the weekend anyway, Jessie explained, so they wouldn’t disturb her until morning.

Jessie looked around the cluttered living room. They probably still had plenty of time to lay out the notes and exhibits Jared needed to prepare Carlos, since it was such slow going tonight. Jessie glanced once more out the window into the dark. She just hoped Jared would drive carefully.





Marcus couldn’t wait any longer. Another day had passed since he’d spoken with Proctor. He knew that the man said only to call with emergencies. But three days until trial and still nothing had happened.

He pressed Proctor’s number.

The sound of a car engine was audible in the background as the man answered—but otherwise, there was only silence.

“Proctor?”

“What’s the emergency.”

“I . . . I’ve got to know when this is going to happen.”

“It’s happening tonight.”

It was what he wanted to hear, but Marcus was staggered at the words.

“You’re sure?”

“The farmer’s moving tonight. I’m cleanup.”

Marcus, still dazed, asked, “And what am I to do?”

“I told you. You do everything just the same way you’ve been doing it. Nothing changes tonight. Do not call again.”





Keeping his eyes riveted on the vague outlines of the road, Richard pulled out his phone and punched in Jared’s number. The phone rang several times before Jared’s voice answered.

“Mr. Neaton, I’ve been trying to find the Larson farm but haven’t had any luck. The visibility is so poor that I think I’m going back to Ashley to find my motel.”

“Okay. That’s fine. We can talk tomorrow.”

Richard paused. He knew how absurd his sensibilities sometimes sounded to people—and this one probably more than most.

“Is that it, Richard?” Jared asked. “I’ve got to stay focused on the road right now.”

“Well . . . Mr. Neaton . . . I did see something odd a few minutes ago that I thought I should tell you about.”

“Okay. But please make it quick.”

“I came across a truck in a ditch. I think I saw the truck in town earlier, near the Ashley Legion Hall. It appears to be a hunter, and he’s left the truck.”

“Mm-hmm.” Jared’s voice sounded distracted. How did Richard explain what was troubling him, especially when he was so uncertain of what it was himself.

“Well, I saw a car around the Legion Hall as well—and I think I just passed that car on the road.”

“Okay . . . where are you?”

Richard shrugged, then answered, “I don’t know. But where I saw the truck, I think it was not very far from Erin’s farm.”

“Wait a minute. Richard, I’ve got to call you back. The road’s too slippery. I’ll call you as soon as I get to Erin’s place.”

The line went dead before Richard could reply. He set the phone down to concentrate on staying on the road.

As vague as his impressions were, this one was sticking with him. He considered turning back, but what good would that do? He was almost to Ashley now, and he didn’t even know where the Larson farm was.

He’d just have to wait for Jared to call back and try to explain himself more clearly.





“Erin, could you grab that note file?” Jessie asked, pointing toward a box on the sofa. “Yep, that one. Thanks.”

It was closing in on eight o’clock, and Jessie was starting to get worried. The wind had died down, but through the window she could still see the soft cloud of descending snow. With the temperature dropping, it would cover the icy roads like a trap. She had forced herself not to call so far, but this was getting to be too much. She looked around, saw her cell phone on the table near the staircase, crossed the room, and started to press Jared’s number.

What was that sound? Jessie stopped and turned to the quizzical look on Erin’s face. She’d heard it too. Like wood being forced in a stuck door or window.

Erin’s mouth was open, but she remained silent.

“I don’t think any animal would make that sound,” Jessie said.

There it was again. It was hard to locate, but Jessie thought it came from the side of the house nearest the hillside.

“I think we should—” Erin began. Her words were lost in a crescendo of shattering glass.

“Oh . . .” Jessie forced through a closed throat, her stomach plummeting.

“The basement,” Erin whispered, and Jessie could see fear glazing her eyes.

Jessie walked quickly to the fireplace. She extended a hand toward an iron—then realized she was fumbling in the dark.

The lights were out.





It felt like driving on a skating rink, the ice painted white. His phone buzzed, and Jared dug it out of his pocket. He kept his eyes fixed on the highway ahead of him as he pushed the answer button.

“Yeah.”

“Jared” came a hoarse whisper. Was it Jessie? “Someone’s in the basement. Jared, where are you?”

Jared’s hands grew slick. “Jessie, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Someone broke in and the lights are out.” The fear in her voice gripped his chest.

“Where are you now?”

“The living room.”

“Call the police, Jessie. I’m only a mile away. Then get out of there and call back.”

“Okay. Please, Jared, hurry.”





Jessie found Erin’s hand in the darkness, felt the quaking fingers and heard her stifling a whimper. Pressing her lips to Erin’s ear, she whispered, “Quiet.”

She led Erin toward the kitchen entrance, then stopped. Cory was asleep upstairs.

Cory. They were probably looking for Cory.

Jessie located Erin’s other hand and slipped the fireplace iron into her fingers. She led them both back to the fireplace, fumbling around the mantel until she found the fireplace tool stand and grabbed another heavy iron for herself.

Think. The steps to the basement were on the far side of the kitchen, away from the living room entryway.

She listened. No sound came from that direction.

They had to get Cory before they fled the house. Erin’s arm felt rigid as Jessie led her toward the staircase leading upstairs. With another whispered “Quiet” in Erin’s ear, Jessie started up the wooden steps with gentle steps.

A banister lined the upstairs hallway surrounding the staircase. Jessie groped for it in the dark, then followed its contours to the upstairs landing before heading left in the direction of the front corner room where Cory would be sleeping tonight.

Erin’s hand was wet with moisture. Or maybe it was Jessie’s own hand. She held the fingers tighter.

They reached the door and Jessie felt for the knob in the dark—turned it carefully, opening the door into the black space beyond. In the stillness of the open room, Jessie could hear Cory’s gentle breathing and see the silver shadow of her form in bed. Still grasping Erin’s moist hand, they crept across the room until the soft edge of a pillow brushed Jessie’s hand.

She knelt near the sound of the hushed breaths and whispered, “Cory.” No response. Jessie leaned closer and once more hoarsely whispered, “Cory.”

“WHAT,” Cory called out, startled, and Jessie slid a hand across her lips.

The darkness was a chasm of silence in the wake of Cory’s outburst. Three seconds passed. Five. Then Jessie heard the thump of a heavy footfall on the wooden stairs below.





He grasped the wheel hard in both hands, pushing down on the accelerator. The back of the car fishtailed. He turned into the skid, eased off the pedal, tried again.

Jared explained Jessie’s call to Carlos through a haze of adrenaline and fear. His mind ached at the creeping pace of each painstaking yard of snow-covered road.

Just ahead Jared saw the driveway, but it was on him too soon. He slammed the brakes, felt the car spinning toward the ditch. He fought the slide, pumping the brakes like a piston. The spin slowed, the car sliding sideways across the road . . . easing, easing—then stopping at an angle somewhere near the edge of the far ditch.

Jared slammed the car into first gear, pressing the accelerator. The wheels started to spin. He lifted the accelerator, then tried again, more slowly. Please move. The car began to inch forward.

Twenty yards away, the headlights splayed over the driveway entrance they’d slid past, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding snow. He turned the CR-V onto it and began the drive to the house.

The winds had decreased for the time being, but the rate of snowfall was increasing and the headlamps lit a waterfall of solid white. He flipped the lights to Low, revealing the road more clearly, and strained to recall the gentle curves of the driveway as it approached the house.

The house was ahead of them, rising out of the wall of blowing snow, looking abandoned against the dark sky and surrounding white. No lights lit the windows.

Only now did it strike him—Jessie hadn’t called back.





Jessie whispered frantically to Cory, begging her to remain quiet. In the stillness, she pressed the prone girl’s shoulder, driving her across the bed to the floor in the narrow space between the bed and interior wall. She tugged Erin, who followed them. She felt the bed give beneath their weight as they slid across the mattress and then down on the far side, coming to rest in a crouch next to the wall.

Jessie trembled, clutching the iron in her hand; she felt the soft shaking of Cory beside her. The terror wrung her like a rag, but Jessie repeated to herself that she was going to fight.

The footsteps had faded after the sound of the lower steps, but now she thought she could hear shoes sliding on the carpet along the banister.

A door creaked open along the upstairs hallway; then another, closer. Now the only remaning door on the hall was to this room.

Before she heard it, she felt it: the presence of someone entering the room through the door to her left. A ragged breath scraped in the darkness, followed by the hack of a cough. The figure seemed to be moving around the far side of the bed.

The figure’s shadow was outlined by a light that suddenly glimmered through the bedroom windows to the front of the house. It was a man, Jessie knew through the prism of her fear. The figure glanced through the window toward the source of the light, then turned back to stare toward the interior of the bedroom.

In his hands he held something black and long. It was a shotgun.

A minute passed, frozen in time. Another. Then Jessie’s ears were shattered by Erin’s scream.





Jared stopped the car well short of the house, at a spot where the car lamps threw light across the first story of the house. He shifted into Park, threw open the door, and launched himself into the snow. He heard the passenger door open, knew the veteran would have problems with the icy ground, but couldn’t wait, racing ahead on sliding steps toward the kitchen entrance.

The kitchen was black, lit only by the headlights through the nearest window. Jared stopped himself, trying to slow his tumbling thoughts.

“Someone’s in the basement,” she’d said. The basement door on his left was ajar. Jared knelt and ran his fingers on the linoleum floor, feeling melting puddles of snow.

His breath still ragged after the sliding run from the car, Jared stood back up, drawing deep gulps of air to bring it under control. After a moment, he stepped toward the living room, easing his footfalls on the hard linoleum.

In the living room, the car lights cast ghostly shadows through curtained windows. Jared scanned the length of the room. No one was visible, and there were no sounds.

The staircase ascended to his left. He’d only been there a few times—to use the bathroom at the head of the steps. Three other doors lined the carpeted landing to the left.

Jared crossed the living room to the staircase, touched the lowest stairs with his fingers, felt again the chill of cold water on each. He eased his foot onto the first step, pressed gently down, raised his other foot toward the next.

He was halfway up the staircase when the dark was split by a scream.

Jared pounded the remaining stairs three at a time, grabbing the banister and yanking himself onto the landing. The scream came from the darkness to the left. Thundering down the hall, Jared saw the door to the farthest room ajar, faint light tracing its outline.

He burst into a ghostly light of the room, wet shoes screeching on the hardwood floor.

He saw it all in an instant. The light was passing through the front windows. To Jared’s right, pressed against the wall, he could make out Jessie and Erin crouched almost to the floor behind a high double bed. Jessie’s arm was held high, slung across the whimpering figure of another girl between them—Cory. In Jessie’s hand, she clutched a metal iron over the sobbing girl’s head as though to ward off a blow.

A fourth figure stood slouching before the windows. He wore a camouflage-patterned hunting jacket, a stocking mask covering his face. At his waist, he held a double-barreled shotgun that now rose in Jared’s direction.

He expected the blast and covered his stomach with his hands to block it. But the gun did not explode.

The man before the windows pumped rapid breaths—whether from exertion or excitement, Jared could not know. Though the man’s back was to the faint window light, even in the near darkness Jared could see eyes opened wide with surprise.

The covered head swung back toward the figures of the women behind the bed. The shotgun followed, stopped, and Jared saw that it was pointing at Erin’s head.

There was a flash of sudden light. Jared threw himself across the bed, into the line of the shotgun’s aim. The weapon cracked as he felt the bed’s surface beneath him, and Jared thought, So this is my death.

He lay for a moment as the mattress settled under his weight; raised his fingers to search for the blood-gorged holes where he knew his life must be escaping.

Elbows and knees scrambled roughly across his body. Jared opened his eyes. Jessie was now standing on the other side of the bed, her hair wild in the glare of a brighter light than before. The iron was gone. She was clutching the shotgun, pointed toward the floor.

Cory, still cringing behind the bed, let her whimpers rise to deep, wracking sobs. Erin was gone.

Jared rolled toward the window, wondering why the room was inexplicably bright. In the shadows at floor level he saw the slumped figure of the man. A moan escaped his lips.

Jared crossed to the window, covering his eyes against the glare of light passing through it. Below, the CR-V car lamps were now on high beam. Even through the light and the pattern of whirling snow, he could make out Carlos below, squinting down the length of the .22 rifle, which rested across the top of the frame of the open driver’s door.

The figure on the floor was rolling, his moans growing louder. Jared turned back to him and felt along the man’s head, then his back, until he felt sticky moisture seeping through the jacket near his left shoulder. Then the room lights came on, blinding him.

Erin stepped back into the room just as the gray was fading from Jared’s vision and he could see again without pain. “Get something to press on the wound,” he said, louder than he intended, and watched as Erin left the room once more to comply.

Jared reached down and removed the ski mask.

Joe Creedy’s eyes were glassy with shock. The stale stench of alcohol rose from his lips as he tried to speak, but no sound came out except the rising moans.

The adrenaline of fear was fading in Jared, replaced by something akin to rage—but colder and more irresistible. He looked up at Jessie. She was still holding the shotgun, which was aimed at Creedy’s head. He saw her lips move and heard her say, “I’ll call the police. We need to wait for them.” Then Erin reappeared and pressed a bundle of washcloths against Creedy’s shoulder.

Jared sidestepped the body and headed toward the stairs, ignoring Jessie urgently asking him where he was going. Downstairs, he passed Carlos, limping across the kitchen floor, the .22 still in his hands. He didn’t respond to the veteran’s question: “What’s happening?” before stepping back out into the snow.

He crossed to his vehicle, slid into the driver’s seat, and roughly turned the vehicle around to head back down the driveway.

He knew where Marcus’s cabin was located. Marcus never let his help work far from his reach and control. That’s where he would be now.





By the time he reached the cabin, the wind had calmed and the snow had slowed momentarily. Jared recognized Marcus’s BMW parked in the driveway, several inches of white covering its windshield and hood. The house beyond was dark and silent.

Jared got out of the car cautiously. His anger was still burning strong, but it was no longer fresh, and he felt caution creeping in at the stillness of the scene. He looked at his watch. It was nearly nine thirty.

The front door was unlocked. He considered knocking, then realized how absurd that would be. He turned the knob and opened it.

Jared was unsure what he would do next. Confront Marcus? Hurt him? Arrest him? There was no plan. His rage had not relented, but all he felt with certainty was that he was going to end this tonight.

Inside, the house sat dark. Jared had only been there once, for a firm function, and could not recall the layout. Directly ahead, visible from a faint night-light in the adjacent kitchen, was a large dining room table. It appeared as though the dining room opened directly into a spacious living room space to his left. Jared turned to the wall, feeling for a light switch.

“You don’t want to do that.”

The voice came from the farthest reach of the living room, in a corner beyond a large window.

Jared felt his anger begin a slide toward fear. He strained to see through the darkness in the direction of the voice.

“Take two more steps into the room, then stop.”

The voice was not angry, but clear and commanding. Jared moved to comply.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Jared could just make out two silhouettes beside a tall bookcase nestled in the corner of the room. One man was seated at a small corner desk, his face faintly visible from a low lamp aimed at the desk surface. Jared could see that it was Marcus.

The other figure was standing behind Marcus, deeper in the darkness. One hand was visible, retreating from the desk lamp, which Jared guessed he had just turned low. The other held a handgun. It was directed at Marcus’s head.

The distance from the door suddenly felt like a canyon.

They stood silently for a long interval. Jared knew he should be more frightened, but the last fragments of anger still lingered in his chest, and the mystery of the scene cushioned him with a vague sense of disorientation.

“Who are you?” he heard himself ask.

The figure didn’t respond at first, until Jared almost wondered whether he was imagining the man.

“Well, Mr. Neaton,” the voice began at last, so calm it seemed almost serene, “I’m a fountain of justice in this parched corner of the world up here.”

At these words, the last of Jared’s rage gave way to a wave of nausea. He felt his knees grow watery.

A mantel clock clacked, punctuating the silence. Now he could also hear Marcus’s labored breathing, the man’s nostrils widening with breath that came like a bellows.

“Now, this I hadn’t planned on,” the voice spoke again.

Jared didn’t know how to respond, fearing that anything he said would make the gun fire—or turn toward himself.

“This man wanted Erin Larson to die,” the gunman continued. “Did you know that? And if there was an opportunity, he asked that you be thrown in as well.”

“Did you put Joe Creedy up to the attack tonight?” Jared asked.

“No. That was someone else’s mission. But I watched it unfold. Tell me: was it successful?”

Jared wavered. “Yes,” he answered.

“Well, that does make events here tonight nicely . . . symmetrical.”

Jared’s eyes had adjusted more fully in the dark space. He saw that Marcus’s eyes were rheumy and wide, as though he were staring at a different place.

The gun slowly shifted, arcing from Marcus’s head until the barrel pointed at Jared’s chest.

“That’s not a good idea.”

It was Marcus’s voice this time, and though riddled with fear, it carried a trace of his courtroom command.

“What did you say?” the gunman asked.

“That’s not a good idea. Stick with your plan.”

“Are you giving me advice, Counselor?” the gunman mocked.

Marcus shook his head. When he spoke, his voice had gained a further measure of strength. “I’m just saying that your first plan made more sense. One death is a suicide; two deaths is an investigation. And,” Marcus continued, “you still need the disk of our conversation.”

The gun shifted away from Jared for an instant.

“I’ll find the disk,” the voice said.

“But will you find it before the police reach the same conclusion as Neaton and come here looking for me? You let Neaton go, and I’ll tell you where it is.”

“Are we negotiating, Counselor?”

“No.” Marcus shook his head slowly. “Everything I’ve got is on the table.”

The weapon hovered between the two attorneys.

“I already told you, Stanford, I never get caught,” the gunman said. “How can I let Neaton go?”

“If you let him go, Neaton’s not going to tell a soul what he saw here.”

The man snorted derisively. “And why is that?”

Marcus cleared a dry throat and fixed a stare on Jared. When he opened his lips to speak again, he addressed himself to Jared—and his plea floated as if made from something other than breath.

“Because this man let me write my own suicide note tonight. It gave me a chance to say things—to my kids, my wife. Things I’ve never said before. Things I didn’t understand before now. Jared, I’m not leaving this room tonight—no matter what happens. Let them read my note. Let them believe I killed myself because I was sorry—not because I was afraid. And don’t leave them with his story: that I murdered you, then killed myself.”

Jared shook his head, torn in two, still wrapped in the paralysis of his fear.

The gunman’s head turned toward Jared, and though his face was shrouded by the dark, Jared knew he was examining him.

“You’d best leave now, Mr. Neaton,” he said at last.

“You’re going to kill Marcus if I go,” Jared heard himself answer.

“Whether you leave or you stay, Mr. Stanford is about to have justice visited upon him.”

“That’s not justice.”

The man shrugged. “Whatever you believe, walk away from this. You didn’t set this in motion. He did. There must be someone else more important to live for. Or to die for.”

“You’d let me walk out of here.”

“Yes. Because I think you’ll do as Mr. Stanford asked. And also, my attorney here is right: you’re harder to explain than him.” He paused. “But not impossible.”

Jared shook his head in denial. “I can’t just leave.”

When the gunman spoke again, the voice had deepened, and Jared shuddered, knowing he was hearing a cold and remorseless truth.

“I’m just the whisper in the dark that tomorrow you’ll tell yourself you never heard. But for now you’d best listen. You’re about to die. For this.” The man nudged Marcus’s forehead with the weapon. “You didn’t cause this man’s death. He did. He’s asked you to leave. So go. And never mention this again.”

Jared looked at Marcus, surprised to see his eyes now focused with the intensity he’d last seen in the courtroom. When Marcus spoke, his words carried the force of a closing argument.

“I want you to go, Jared. Now. Let my family know what I did in the end.”

It was several moments before Jared realized that he was back in the driveway. He came aware to hear the wind sifting through snow-laden pine needles with a gentle shush. He took a frozen gulp of air, felt it cold and harsh in his lungs like a promise of life. He kept expecting to hear or feel something that would tell him it was done. He never did.

Jared still heard Marcus’s last words echoing with undiminished clarity. The Paisley lawyer had saved his life. He had also exacted a promise.

Silently, Jared trekked the few snowy steps to his car and drove away.