Authors: Mary J. Williams
"I know."
Dalton ended the call. Stretching, he closed his eyes and relaxed his body. Even with the air conditioner at full blast, the room was unpleasantly stuffy. The sheets had the feel of a mild-grade sandpaper, and the neon sign flashed vacancy through the drawn curtain. However, he was too tired for any of that to matter.
Within minutes, Dalton drifted off to sleep with a slight smile on his lips and a final thought of the lovely Colleen. For the next six hours, he slept soundly. And blissfully dreamed of nothing.
EVERY MORNING, DALTON tried to run at least five miles. More if time permitted. Yesterday, he had skipped the ritual but not today. Starting at a leisurely pace, he circled behind the motel, cutting through the alley littered with a puzzlingly large amount of empty beer bottles. Was that a week's supply? A month's? Didn't the owners believe in recycling? The battered green refuse dumpster overflowed with a gag-inducing amount of malodorous black plastic bags. When the hell was garbage pick-up in this town?
Shaking off the less-than-pleasant beginning, Dalton veered onto a promising-looking path. It didn't take long for his muscles to loosen. Speeding up, he breathed with practiced ease. Running was the perfect way to explore an area. When they were on tour, Dalton never took the same route twice. It was amazing what he saw on foot. Small, interesting things that he never would have discovered riding along in a car. It was how he found his favorite boot maker. The tiny shop in the middle of an out-of-the-way neighborhood in Milan. It had been an unexpected and pleasant surprise.
Dalton didn't expect anything close to pleasant as he wound his way through the middle of Midas.
The Midas Manor—Dalton snorted at the pretentious name—was located at the point where the town began to morph from dirt poor to stinking rich. There wasn't much of a middle class in Midas, but it did exist. Somebody needed to provide essential services to the town. Food and various sundries. Dalton imagined the bulk of the clientele came from the south side of town. However, when faced with no cream for their morning coffee, the northsiders probably stooped to send a servant to pick up a pint.
Shaking his head at his fanciful thoughts, Dalton journeyed on. This wasn't something he would have done seven years ago. Today he believed a healthy body led to a healthy mind. In his early twenties, he relied upon youthful energy and stupidity. Sometimes he wondered why he hadn't landed in trouble more often. The trouble he found in Midas that fateful summer set him on a different path.
Not to salvation—Dalton had no idea what that even meant. He learned the hard way to stop coasting on his innate gifts as a drummer and a man. He began to study other musicians. He honed his craft. When he listened to the band's early recordings, he heard a wild, undisciplined boy. Now—older, more experienced, smarter—he no longer pounded the drums. He made them sing.
Of course, it was that youthful abandon that brought him to Ryder's attention. Lead singer of a fledgling band that already included Ashe, they needed a drummer. Their backgrounds were different—as were their basic personalities. But in each other they recognized something. The love of music and a burning ambition to succeed. That need brought them together. Through thick and thin—that was their motto.
Few bands lasted a year, let alone a decade. Music brought them together. Their friendship—unbreakable—kept them going strong.
Rounding a corner, Dalton's view changed considerably. Money. It made the world cleaner and greener. For the select families living in the gated community, life was beyond better. To the right, near the base of what passed for a hillside in Midas sat a mansion. It looked down on the town and the surrounding houses. Bigger, brighter, and more ornately ridiculous than the rest.
Dalton had never been inside. This was the first time he had seen it in the light of day. But he knew who lived there. Judge Manfred T. Langley.
"It's like living in the shadow of God. With all the wrath and none of the benevolence."
Surprised, Dalton shifted his gaze. A tall, slender man stood near the gate. His sun-darkened skin was shaded from the morning heat by an old, slouched hat that had seen better days. His hands were covered by well-worn work gloves and on his shoulder rested a long, metal-tined rake.
"God?" Dalton asked. He knew from experience that Judge Langley wielded a shit-load of power, but comparing him to a deity was going a bit far.
"In this town?" Dalton could hear the derision in the man's voice. "Not much difference to some folks. Those of us who think different, pray to the man above on Sunday and bow down to the judge the rest of the week."
If he lived in Midas, Dalton cringed at the thought; this was a man he would want to know. With a friendly smile, he held out his hand.
"Dalton Shaw."
"Tolliver Cline. Everyone calls me Tol." Removing his glove, Tol gave Dalton's hand a firm shake. "And I know who you are. Word spread the second you hit town, son. For various reasons."
"I can imagine."
"I'll bet," Tol chuckled. Bending, he opened a cooler that had been stashed behind a row of neatly trimmed hedges. "You look like you've been out awhile. Want some water?"
"Thanks." Dalton caught Tol's easy lob. He emptied half of the bottle in two long gulps.
"No point in rehashing the past." Tol replaced the lid after drinking from his bottle. "And no point in tiptoeing around the mammoth-sized elephant in the room. Why the hell are you back in Midas?"
At the last second, Dalton turned, spitting his mouthful of water onto the grass instead of in Tol's face. He appreciated the straightforward approach, but the question took him off guard.
"I'm visiting my sister." That was close enough to the truth and all that Tol needed to know.
"Maggie Mayhue?" Seeing Dalton's surprised expression, Tol shrugged. "Small town, son."
In Dalton's book, that excuse only cut it for so long. At some point, everybody knowing everything about everyone crossed over the line from matter of fact to disturbingly creepy. Tol had inched close but wasn't there yet.
"I don't plan on hanging around for long. A few days at the most."
"Smart. You're on the judge's radar."
"Me? What the hell did I do this time?"
"I need to get to work." Tol pulled on his glove. When Dalton started to protest, he held up his hand. "I'm not going to leave you hanging. What are you doing for dinner?"
Dalton thought of Colleen. He had hoped for a meal at her place. Some wine. A long talk, and a night in her bed. Skipping the first part was doable—if Colleen was amenable.
"I live about five miles east of town. My wife makes a mean roasted chicken and mashed potatoes. Seven o'clock work for you?" Tolliver rattled off the address.
"Sounds good."
"Bring Colleen. She'll know the way."
"How did you—"
"Small town, son. Small town."
With a shake of his head, Dalton started back toward the motel. He wasn't worried about Judge Manfred T. Langley. Seven years had placed them on an even footing. Some might say that—seven years later—the scales had tipped in Dalton's favor. His money wasn't old, but his fortune was large. And these days, a celebrity—especially one who earned his position through talent and hard work—carried more heft with more people than any political figure short of the president. As crazy as it sounded, there were times when a rock star even trumped the Commander in Chief.
However, Dalton was curious. Tolliver claimed he knew the answer—and it came with a home-cooked meal. Plus another evening spent with Colleen. Midas would never be a vacation getaway, but it turned out to be better than he could have imagined.
COLLEEN RARELY TOOK a lunch break. She got paid by the hour, but she had prodded Dole into adding a bonus clause into their employment agreement. The one she drew up when he tried to shaft her out of their agreed wage. If she finished a job ahead of schedule, Dole paid her a percentage of the final bill—a bill she looked over carefully to make certain it wasn't padded.
At 11:26 a.m., Colleen earned that bonus when she finished an engine rebuild. To celebrate, she hitched a ride to her mother's, hoping to get a meal and take care of her weekly visit all in one.
"Mom? Are you home?"
It wasn't a silly question. Sherry McNamara Higgins never locked the back door. She hadn't bothered when they lived in Kansas, and nothing changed when they moved to Arizona. For some reason, no matter how Colleen tried, she couldn't make her mother see that bolting the front door, but not the back, was like putting sunscreen on only half of your face. The thief, like the sun, would burn you one way or the other.
It seemed like a perfect simile for a beautician. And it worked. For a week or two. However, it wasn't long before Sherry forgot. Her husband had lived in the same neighborhood all his life. Rick saw nothing wrong with unlocked doors. When Colleen tried to reason with him, he simply shrugged, giving her what had to be the unofficial town motto.
It's Midas
.
The sound of laundry churning away greeted Colleen as she walked into the house. Again, nothing unusual. Between the beauty salon and the work clothes Rick shed every night when he got home from his job on the county road crew, the washing machine and dryer were in constant use. It smelled like ammonia, road tar, and Mountain Fresh Gain.
Sherry liked to joke that she married Rick for his house. It was her dream layout. All one level, each room flowed into the next. The master bedroom was located on the east side. To get to the guest room—Colleen's until she turned eighteen and moved out—it was necessary to walk from one end of the house to the other. She never worried about getting in late from a date. She simply left her bedroom window ajar and snuck in. Her mother never tried to crack down on Colleen's nocturnal activities. But looking back, she should have. Thank God for the free clinic in Phoenix that kept the kids of Midas supplied with condoms and birth control pills.
"Colleen? I'm in the kitchen, sweetheart."
Entering through the washroom door, Colleen walked to where her mother sat at the granite-covered island with a cup of coffee and her laptop. Picture perfect from the top of her frosted blond hair to the tips of her manicured nails, her mother was a walking billboard for her salon. Each morning—rain, shine, or raging flu—she refused to leave the bathroom until she put on her face. Colleen was certain there had to be a face somewhere under the face, but in all of her twenty-six years, she had never seen it.
"What is that noise?"
Puzzled, Sherry cocked her head. "It's just the overhead fan. I've gotten used to it so I don't even hear it anymore."
It sounded as though the fan was powered by a dozen mice running around a very squeaky wheel.
"Did you ask Rick to fix it?"
Sherry flicked her wrist, her expression indulgent. "The dear man tried. He emptied a can of WD-40. All it did was leave a pool of grease on my good counters."
Rick was a lousy handyman but a very good husband and stepfather. Her mother had hit the jackpot and so had Colleen. Doing odd jobs around the house didn't begin to pay him back.
Taking the proper tools from the drawer in the washroom, Colleen flipped the circuit breaker. A scant five minutes later, the squeak was gone.
"My clever girl. I don't know where you get it. I can barely change a light bulb. Your father wasn't any better. But he gave you his red hair and green eyes." Smiling, Sherry smoothed a hand across Colleen's cheek. "I see him every time I look at you. Now
that
is a gift."
And that was why Colleen loved her mother. Scatterbrained, archaic in her thinking about the roles of men and women, and lost in her own world so much of the time. Out of the blue, Sherry could say something so sweet that it made Colleen forget all her faults.
Then in the next instant, her mother would turn around and make Colleen want to pull out her red hair and cross her green eyes in frustration.
"I understand you're dating a criminal."
"I'm not dating anyone. I had dinner with an interesting man. A very famous man." To illustrate her point, Colleen tapped a few keys on her mother's computer. When the YouTube video began to play, she turned the screen. "
The Ryder Hart Band
. I know you like their music."
"Infamous is more like it." Sherry had that stubborn set to her jaw that Colleen recognized only too well. Easily influenced, the fleas that a
well-meaning
friend had planted in her mother's ear would not be easily removed. "You were seen together last night
and
this morning. Did you spend the night with that—?"
"Drummer?"
"Jailbird."
Colleen had to laugh. "That term went out with Jimmy Cagney."
"Answer the question, Colleen."
"The last time you asked about my sex life I was sixteen. Do you remember my response?"
Sherry's painted red lips tightened. "You told me it was none of my business. If you'll recall, I didn't agree. That hasn't changed."
"Mom." Deciding to change her tactics, Colleen put a friendly arm around her mother's waist. "You know me. Would I associate with a dangerous criminal? I looked up the trial and read the notes."
"On the internet?" Sherry scoffed. "Nothing but secondhand information. Why didn't you ask me? I was here that summer."
Colleen was well acquainted with her mother's dicey memories. Sherry added or subtracted details to fit her idea of the truth. The gossip she heard at the salon always played a big part—the juicier, the better. To save herself a trip down that particular road, Colleen threw her sex life under the bus.
"I did not sleep with Dalton, Mom. His car broke down, and I rented him the T-Bird. I picked him up at his hotel this morning. That was what your informant witnessed."
With the enthusiasm of a brand new lottery winner, Sherry threw her arms around Colleen. Pulling back, her face wreathed in happiness, her mother nodded sagely.