With a Vengeance (25 page)

Almost as soon as Pete asked himself the question, he came to the final paragraph. And then he knew.

Richard Brown was survived by his father, Richard Senior. Preceding him in death was a brother. Donald Moreno.
Donnie
Moreno. The boy who had crippled Chuck. The boy Pete had shot and killed.

Twenty-Eight

So that was why the name Rick Brown kept nagging at Pete. Yes, it was common, but some part of his memory must have recalled the father’s or the brother’s name from all those years ago.

Pete reread the entire article, more carefully this time. There was nothing else of importance. Or at least nothing else he could see. He picked up his phone and made the call to Chuck in Hawaii.

“About time you got around to returning my phone call.”

“I thought you were hounding me about that job.”

“Hell no. You want to put up with low pay and cold winters all for the sake of a woman. I got it. Did you read the article?”

Pete squinted at the screen. “I did. In fact, I still have it in front of me. But there are some holes I need filled.”

“I figured.”

“For starters, why did you send this to me now?”

Chuck’s anxious inhalation carried across the miles. “About three weeks ago I began receiving phone calls. Six…seven…eight a day. Hang ups. I thought it was an especially persistent telemarketer. Caller ID only showed a wireless number. So I blocked it. He must have switched to a different phone because the calls kept coming.”

Burner phones.

“Then he started calling every blasted hour,” Chuck said. “Twenty-four-seven. Yesterday, I picked up, expecting to get a robot, but planning to give the guy hell if a real person answered. Instead I got the most evil laugh I’ve ever heard. And he said, ‘I hope you remember, because I do. And I’m gonna keep my promise.’ He didn’t tell me who he was. Didn’t have to. I’ve never forgotten that voice.”

Chuck had lost Pete. Completely. “What are you talking about? What promise?”

There was another pause. “How much do you remember from…back then?”

“Everything.” Except the kid’s father and brother’s last name.

Chuck snorted over the phone. “I somehow doubt that. Do you remember Moreno’s old man threatening to bring down the hounds of hell on both of us for taking his boy from him?”

“What?” This was news to Pete. “No. He did?”

Chuck grunted. “Come to think of it, I guess you weren’t there at the time. The whack job came to my hospital room. Threatened to rip my IVs out and blow into them. Give me an air embolism. I believe he might have done it too, if an orderly hadn’t walked in.”

“Donnie Moreno’s father did this?” Pete rubbed his forehead, struggling to conjure up an image of the man. “Richard Brown?”

“Senior. Yeah.”

A mental picture formed. A dark-haired bearded man, mid-thirties. “That was—what? Ten years ago?”

“Eleven.”

“That’s a long time to carry all that hate,” Pete mused out loud.

“I know. The way I figure it, he busied himself taking care of the other boy. Richard Junior.”

“Rick.”

“And when he lost him too, it stirred up the emotional shit that’s been festering and eating him up inside for the last decade.”

Pete struggled to bridge the leap in logic. And years.

“Once I realized who’d been calling me, I started doing some digging,” Chuck said. “I wanted to know where Brown was and what he’d been up to. And what might have happened to wake the sleeping beast. I found that article. Since Dayton’s only a few hours from Pittsburgh, I pulled up the
Post-Gazette
too and read about the shootings in your area. It’s him, Petey. He’s gunning for you. And I bet he already has a plane ticket for Hawaii to come after me next.”

Pete wanted to believe his old partner was certifiable. But it all made a horrible kind of sense. Pete tried to age the picture of Moreno’s father in his head. Tried to see details of the face beyond the beard. But all he kept seeing was a generic older man.

With a beard. Maybe it wasn’t only the girl’s lips that moved when lies were told.

“Hey, Chuck, did Richard Senior have any other kids? A daughter, perhaps?”

“Not that I’m aware of. But while I was digging around, I stumbled across one other thing you need to know. Richard Brown’s not going by that name anymore.”

Pete’s brain chilled. “Hector Livingston.” And he’d just kicked him free.

“Livingston?” Chuck sounded puzzled. “No. Webber. Gabriel Webber.”

“Get in.”

Zoe didn’t move. Didn’t dare to. The cold metal of the gun barrel was pressing into the soft flesh under her jaw. The big hand with nails stained black around the cuticles still palmed the seat back, pinning her arm. Bud Kramer’s dead body sprawled inside her truck. She didn’t dare turn to see who the hand belonged to. The voice was familiar though.

“I can’t,” she said, trying not to move her jaw. “You’ve got my arm stuck.”

He removed his hand. Stepped back. But kept the gun fatally close to her face. “Get in,” he repeated.

She slid her arm free. Swallowed. And turned to face the man who had shot Earl. And Curtis and Yancy. The man who had killed Barry Dickson and Jason Dyer. “Gabe?”

The mechanic smiled like the old friend she’d thought he was. “Hi, Zoe. Now don’t make me say it again. Get in.”

The bone-chilling rain soaked her shirt and her hair. The breeze didn’t help. Gabe was drenched too, and shivering. Zoe forced her gaze from the rifle muzzle to his finger on the trigger. “You don’t need to point that at me.” She raised both hands to shoulder height, palms facing him. Then aimed one thumb toward the truck cab. “Bud’s in there.”

“You think I don’t know? I put him there. Damned fool caught me borrowing his quad again.” Gabe tipped his head toward the tarped load in the pickup’s bed. “I didn’t wanna kill him. He wasn’t part of this. Drag him out. Won’t hurt him none to get wet.”

“Drag him?” Zoe risked looking away from Gabe to study the corpse. Bud had to weigh close to two hundred pounds. “I don’t think I can.”

“You muscle those horses around, don’t you? You’re strong.”

She could argue, but rationalizing with a madman seemed counterproductive. Reaching into the cab, she grabbed Bud’s belt and a handful of shirt. And heaved. Perhaps if she’d had leather seats, she might have been able to slide him, but her woven seat covers only provided more resistance. She tried again, grunting loudly for Gabe’s benefit. Still nothing. She straightened and faced the rifle. “Maybe if you helped?”

“You mean put down the gun? I don’t think so.”

Somewhere in the distance, over the roar of the rain on the truck’s roof and hood, another sound caught Zoe’s ear. The low rumble of an engine. Not a car or truck. Perhaps a plane. No. A helicopter. She hoped Gabe didn’t hear it too. Perhaps help was coming. Out in the open like this, they’d be spotted easily. “I’ll try one more time,” she said. Distract and delay.

But Gabe looked skyward. “Gawddamn cops. Probably out looking for you already.” He gestured with the gun. “Get in. Just shove him out of the way to make room.”

She glanced toward the rear of the truck. Earl. Right now he was being sheltered, somewhat at least, by the dropped tailgate. If she said nothing and let Gabe take her somewhere else, she’d be driving away Earl’s protection. Not to mention leaving her partner alone on a desolate back road with a gunshot wound. Already shocky, the chill of the icy rain would kill him for sure.

“My partner’s hurt.” She left out the part about Gabe being responsible. “I was about to get a blanket for him from behind this seat. Let me run it back to him before we go.”

Gabe’s expression was unreadable. For a moment Zoe thought he might be considering her request. “I understand,” he said. “You don’t want your friend to suffer.” He hefted the rifle. “I can put an end to that right now.”

“No, no. That’s okay. I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Besides, she’d left Earl her phone.

“Good.” Gabe nudged her with the gun. “Ain’t saying it again.”

“Yeah. ‘Get in.’” She grabbed the steering wheel and climbed inside. Gabe slammed the door closed, pinning her between it and Bud Kramer’s ass. Never again would she complain about being crowded with three—or even four—
living
people in the truck with her.

Gabe kept the rifle aimed at her through the windshield as he crossed in front of the truck. Too late she thought she should have started it, shifted into drive, and gunned the thing. But that reminded her…

When Gabe opened the passenger door and started wrestling with Bud’s torso, Zoe said, “I didn’t think my truck would start. You said you hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet.”

Gabe tugged and heaved, leveraging the corpse into a limp seated position before climbing in. “I lied.” He pulled the door closed, braced Bud upright with one shoulder, and nestled the rifle, still pointing the business end at Zoe, in his lap. “Let’s take it for a test drive.”

The engine turned over on the first try. Zoe decided thanks for a job well done was not in order.

Gabe reached across the dead man’s legs and forced the transfer case shifter into four-wheel drive. “Go around the ambulance and then follow the road into the woods,” he ordered, stealing a glance out the window.

Zoe did too, hoping to see a helicopter sailing over the trees toward them. But all she could make out through the rain-streaked windshield were leaden gray clouds sagging closer and closer to the ground.

She dropped the gearshift into drive and eased forward, saying a prayer that Earl would be able to forgive her for leaving him. And that he would live long enough to hate her for it.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Baronick asked as he wheeled into Webber’s driveway, “you’ve seen this guy at Kramer’s place and never made the connection?”

Pete gripped the passenger door handle, ready to dive out the moment the car came to a stop. “He doesn’t look the same. He used to have a beard and a full head of dark hair. Now he’s clean shaven, and what hair he has is white.” But Baronick’s question gnawed at him. Pete
should
have recognized the man whose son he’d killed. “Besides, now that I think about it, he always managed to find a good reason to excuse himself when I showed up.”

“You have that effect on a lot of people.”

Smartass
. “Let’s go.”

Baronick caught his arm. “Backup will be here in two minutes with a search warrant.”

Pete jerked free. “Then you stay here and wait for them.” He bailed from the unmarked County car, tugging his ball cup lower over his eyes, shielding them from the steady rain. With one deft move, he released his Glock from the holster. Behind him, the detective grumbled as he stepped out.

Grime coated the garage windows. Pete squinted and could tell the garage held no vehicle, but an impressive array of tools and red tool chests lined the perimeter.

“You take the back,” he said.

“Bullshit. We should wait for backup. Not to mention the warrant.”

“I’m not letting this guy get away again.”

“So you’re gonna bust in there illegally and lose him later on a technicality?”

Baronick’s words stopped Pete. Damn it. He hated when the young detective was right.

“Besides.” Baronick rapped a knuckle on the dirty window. “Doesn’t look like he’s home anyhow.”

“Fine. We wait.”

Baronick studied Pete for a moment. “I suppose you mean wait right here. As opposed to inside my vehicle. Where it’s dry.”

The detective had traded in his slicker for a trench coat, which made him look more like a mobster than a county cop, but the matching fedora’s small brim provided little protection from the deluge. “You want to wait in the car,” Pete told him, “go right ahead.”

Baronick sighed and flattened against the garage door, seeking the minuscule shelter of the door frame. “That’s okay. I’m good.”

Pete took in the house—small and boxy with no landscaping, unless you counted the overgrown weeds sprouting around the cinderblock foundation.

Sided in yellow aluminum bearing patches of mold, the place clearly hadn’t been lavished with upkeep.

“I still feel like I’m missing something,” Baronick said. “I get that this guy wants your blood. But is he the same one who’s been ambushing the others? Or are these two separate cases?”

Pete had been trying to figure it out too. He wasn’t buying the option of Gabe Webber not being connected to the shootings. “They’re tied together. Somehow.”

The wail of approaching sirens sliced through the slushy roar of the rain. Baronick tugged his trench coat’s collar closer around his neck. “Lucy Livingston dated Gabe Webber’s son. There’s a connection for you. Do you think Hector and Gabe joined forces to wipe out all their perceived enemies in one big murder spree?”

“Murder spree?”

Baronick shrugged. “Murder spree. Shooting rampage. Call it what you will. Wearing a uniform has gotten to be friggin’ dangerous around here. Glad I’m in plainclothes.”

Which brought Pete back to a subject he’d been afraid to think about. Zoe. She had yet to call him back.

He pulled out his phone. No missed calls, messages, or texts. Before he could call her number, a parade of squealing police vehicles appeared around the bend in the road.

Baronick slapped Pete’s back. “She’ll be fine.”

He eyed the detective and knew from his creased brow Baronick was trying to convince himself as much as Pete.

Zoe kept an eye on the rearview mirror as she pulled forward. Earl was sprawled flat in the middle of the road. No protection from the cold rain or the swirling winds. Bleeding, shocky, and holding on to one lone bag of IV fluids.

And her phone. Please, God, let him be able to call for help on the phone.

Gabe nudged her leg with the rifle muzzle. “If you’re so worried about your partner suffering, we can go back and I’ll put an end to it.”

She considered calling his bluff. Hoping the helicopter they’d heard put in an appearance. Except she knew it was no bluff.

Barry, Curtis, Yancy, and Jason were evidence the man wasn’t playing games. No, as much as she hated abandoning Earl, the best she could do for him was to take this killer far away.

The Chevy rocked and bounced as she drove off the road and around Medic Two. The ambulance’s emergency lights continued to flash. EOC would be trying to contact her and Earl, wondering why they hadn’t reported in. With everything that had happened in recent days, the dispatcher wouldn’t wait long to send help.