The Price of Redemption. Pamela Tracy
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she had, for five years.
She’d married a man who was the antithesis of her father. She married a hero. This had been his church. It had also been Jose’s. Her best friends Rosa and Sam Packard attended. For the last few months, Ruth and her daughter had accompanied them. Bible Study with Sam on Wednesday nights was becoming habit. And the new minister, Steve Dawson, seemed to direct some of his sermons right at her—usually the message had to do with forgiveness.
Well, she wasn’t ready for that, not when it came to Dustin, but she was learning about Jesus, learning to pray, learning about this grace thing and thinking about being baptized.
The door opened again and Rosa poked her head in. “Ruthie, the service is almost over. People will be heading this way soon.”
“Thanks.” One last sniff, and Ruth followed Rosa into the auditorium and sat down.
Rosa patted Ruth’s knee, a motherly touch, a needed touch, a touch that said I’m here for you.
Heads were bowed for the final prayer, and afterward Ruth joined the long line to say a final goodbye to Jose. His family stood by the casket accepting condolences. Or at least that’s what Ruth thought they were doing.
“Thank you for coming.” Gracia took Ruth’s hand. Her hair was a curious mixture of black and red. She stood about a foot shorter than her children. Yet, she clearly was in charge. “My husband said you changed his mind about female cops. He so admired you for stepping up to the plate after Dustin disappeared. We pray every day for your family, for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Before Ruth had time to say anything else, to do what she’d intended and offer some platitude to help the woman cope, she was gently nudged aside by the person standing behind her.
Trying to shake off the gloom, Ruth stepped out into the August heat and hurried to her car. Clad in black slacks, a black shirt and black cotton jacket, she felt the full weight of the Arizona sun. Black was not the color for summer, as most of the mourners had proven by not wearing what Ruth’s mother had deemed appropriate.
Ruth had first put on her dress uniform, a sign of respect all the other Gila City officers had followed. Then, she’d taken it off. She’d probably receive a reprimand from the captain. But, the captain would no doubt be pleased she’d made it to this funeral. She’d missed the last two. Now her only goal was to make it to her car without any more scenes.
She didn’t want to be a cop mourning a cop.
Ruth had barely touched her key to the ignition when her cell phone vibrated. Ricky Mason, onetime classmate, onetime boyfriend, full-time reporter for the Gila City Gazette, clamored from the other end. Excitement took his naturally tenor voice up to an unnatural soprano. She held the phone away from her ear and in between an annoying amount of static caught the words shed, Santellis, body.
TWO
“Whoa, slow down, take a breath,” Ruth advised. “What about a body?”
“Are you sitting down?” Ricky’s words were rushed, a bit higher pitched than usual.
“I’m sitting down.” Ruth told him. “I’m in the car, outside of Jose’s funeral.”
“Boy, that’s where I should be, was supposed to be, but this is way more important—”
“Tell me about the body!” Ruth’s keys fell to the floorboard. “What body?”
“They won’t let me close yet, but I’m here at Eric Santellis’s place—”
“The old cabin in Broken Bones? What are you doing out in Broken Bones?”
“When a Santellis calls in a dead body, boy, you know there’s a story. I’m here in his kitchen—it’s a mess—and waiting for the go-ahead to take some pictures, ask some questions. Right now they’re not letting anyone close.”
“You’re kidding? Eric Santellis is back? He reported a dead body? Is it Dustin?” The words tumbled from her mouth even as her brain went into overdrive. Dustin’s cruiser had been found on Prospector’s Way, the same road as the Santellis cabin.
“Look, I’ve only been here about fifteen minutes. I’m dating the girl who’s working at the sheriff’s office here, and she clued me in. That’s not to be shared, by the way. They’re annoyed I showed up. Eric—boy does he look like a Santellis—is in the living room. He’s not talking, but he sure knows how to glare. Anyhow, he found a body this afternoon and called it in.”
“I’m on my way. Call me if you find out anything.”
“What and cause a wreck? I’ll fill you in when you get here.”
Ruth hurried out of her vehicle, got down on her hands and knees and fished her keys out from under the driver’s side seat. She almost dropped them again, her hands were shaking so badly.
She aimed her small SUV toward Broken Bones and hit the speed dial on her cell phone and let her mother know she’d be late and to go pick up Megan from the babysitter.
I’m not ready for this.
Ruth clutched the cell phone. She should make one more call to a fellow police officer. She should call Sam Packard, her husband’s best friend. Instead, her hand inched toward the car’s radio. Dare she listen to hear if the news was reporting anything about a body found on Prospector’s Way?
No, it was too soon. And if Ricky wasn’t privy to information, neither were other reporters.
Oh, this was hard. She’d prayed for closure, and now that it was almost here all she felt was dread. Dread! She hated to admit it, but there’d always been this tiny germ of hope that Dustin would someday be discovered leading a secret life in some small community in Mexico. Amnesia. It would be amnesia.
Well, it could happen!
She turned onto the two-lane highway and got stuck behind a tractor trailer. The slow-moving vehicle gave her way too much time to think. Why had Eric Santellis returned to Arizona? He’d dropped off the earth after he’d gotten out of prison. Rosa said he’d gone looking for his sister. Ruth wished he’d stayed missing.
Leaving Gila City limits behind, Ruth entered a dirt road that jutted to the left and went a good two, three miles before introducing travelers to a type of one-horse town still alive and well in Arizona. She’d lived here for a few years back during her childhood. She remembered her mother cleaning houses to make a living, her father spending time in bars and in jail, and she remembered sleeping on a brown, smelly couch because there had only been one bedroom in the small house.
Broken Bones had thrived in the late 1800s; now it catered to an iffy tourist crowd and a dedicated modern-day gold prospectors crowd, most of whom stayed year-round.
By checking the dashboard clock, Ruth knew it had taken almost an hour to travel from the Fifth Street Church all the way to the Santellises’ cabin.
It felt like forever.
The small SUV parked in front of the cabin blocked the entryway, and took up more room than necessary. The woman, slight of build and dressed in black, strode confidently to the door. She didn’t knock. She opened the door and stepped in, zeroing in on Eric. The reporter started forward, took one look at both the woman and Eric and settled back to wait.
Small-town justice was an entity in itself. No doubt Officer Ruth Atkins figured any Santellis with a body in his shed would have news about the body she most wanted to find: her husband.
Eric had seen her in court all those months ago. On his behalf, in a halting voice, she outlined the investigation she’d been involved in and how she’d investigated the policeman who actually committed the murder Eric went to prison for. Of all who’d testified on his behalf, she was the only one who did it without a hint of compassion. It seemed that his last name, in her opinion, was enough to warrant a life sentence in Florence Prison. But, she was a cop through and through, as her husband