Redemption. B.J. Daniels
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found so interesting out the window.
Looking past her, Nettie followed the girl’s gaze to where three men stood talking in front of the post office up the street. She recognized two local ranchers. The third man was Sheriff Frank Curry.
“Can I help you?”
The girl jumped and spun around, eyes wide. She was pretty, with big, dark eyes, and older than Nettie had first thought, still somewhere in her late teens, though.
“I’m sorry,” Nettie said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” But she had, and badly.
It took a moment for the girl to catch her breath and speak. “I’m here about the apartment?”
Nettie studied her. She’d hoped to get a man, preferably one who could watch the place. With her house on the mountain behind the store, Nettie lived far enough away that she wouldn’t hear if the store was being burglarized during the night. Last fall a grizzly had broken the back window. Thankfully, something had scared the bear away or it could have gotten in and made one devil of a mess.
“I was hoping to rent it to a man,” she said.
The girl’s disappointment was almost palpable. “It’s just that there aren’t any other places to stay in Beartooth.”
That was because few people had any reason to come here, Nettie almost said. Big Timber was only twenty miles away and had a lot more amenities.
Nettie glanced from the girl to her small, newer model compact car parked in front of the store. “I would need first and last month’s rent and a deposit.” She named a number, a little higher than she’d originally planned to ask. She figured that would put an end to it.
“Okay,” the girl said. “I have cash.”
Cash? “How long were you thinking of renting the place?”
“I’m not sure. I’d be happy to pay for six months in advance if you’d consider me,” she added quickly.
Six months? “Mind if I ask what brings you to Beartooth?”
The girl brushed a lock of hair back from her face and lifted her chin almost as if in defiance. “I’m applying to art school in the fall and I need somewhere to work on my portfolio.”
It sounded reasonable. Even possibly true. So why did Nettie feel as though the girl had practiced it?
“I really would appreciate it if you would consider renting to me,” she said, pleading in her tone.
All red flags. “Shouldn’t you see the apartment first?”
“Yes, of course.” The girl was visibly nervous, but Nettie reminded herself that she was young. This was probably her first apartment. No doubt her mother and father would be paying the rent and for her art school, as well. So Nettie wouldn’t have to worry about bounced checks anyway.
“Come with me,” she said. “There is a private entrance outside up the stairs, but you can also get to the apartment through here.” She led the way, with each step telling herself to pass on this girl.
But curiosity had always been Nettie Benton’s downfall. And there was something about this girl—and her desperation to live in Beartooth.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHERIFF FRANK CURRY had always prided himself on his patience. He was used to the state crime lab being backed up for weeks, if not months. Investigations took time. Some arrests weren’t made for months and didn’t go to trial for years. Justice moved slowly, as most of Montana wasn’t automated. Things were done the way they’d been done for years, especially fingerprints.
Only a few cities in Montana had the electronic system. Otherwise, prints were taken the old-fashioned way and sent to the crime lab. He had no doubt that the victim’s prints would be in the system, since he was betting the man had done prison time somewhere, possibly even Deer Lodge at some point. Which could explain how he had the photograph in his possession, if he’d crossed paths with Cullen Ackermann before his death.
“It looks like a map,” Lynette had said of the faded marks on the back of the photo.
Maybe at one time it had been a map, but the drawings were indistinguishable now. Still, before he died Cullen could have given the photo and map to one of the boys. If any of the boys had survived. And if these marks on the photo were a map, was it to the fabled hidden gold?
Frank had learned to live with the slow pace investigations often took.
That was, until this one.
He couldn’t help feeling anxious. He had to know what he was dealing with, starting with the dead man he had cooling his heels in the fridge down at the local mortuary.
It’s that damned photograph. His gut instinct told him that the man on that slab at the morgue was connected to the Ackermanns. Maybe he’d made Cullen’s acquaintance in prison. But why then was the rope, according to Jack, not one that was hitched at Montana State Prison, where Ackermann had been confined for the past thirty years?
Frank knew his fear ran much deeper than that. Hadn’t he been afraid for years that Cullen Ackermann would release his vengeance on Beartooth, just as he’d promised all those years ago?
Cullen’s dead. All the Ackermanns are dead.
Were they? He told himself that if any of the children had survived all those years ago, they would have turned up long before this. All four boys, and the little girl had been presumed dead more than three decades ago. But the remains of only one of the boys had ever been found back up in the Crazies. Who was to say that one or more of them hadn’t survived? And had just now turned up.
But if so, why now?
“Because their father died,” he said to his empty office. “Cullen’s death triggered whatever is going on.”
He knew he was jumping to conclusions, which also wasn’t like him. But Assistant Coroner Charlie Brooks had estimated the dead man’s age at somewhere around forty-five. The boys in the snapshot ranged in age from about twelve to seventeen. This photo had to have been taken about thirty years ago, which meant that the dead man could conceivably be one of the boys.
Frank felt as if a clock had started ticking the moment Cullen Ackermann died. He had to know who the dead man was. Or wasn’t, he thought as he studied the photo again.
When he couldn’t take it any longer, he picked up the phone and called a local artist he knew. “Have you ever done a sketch of a dead man?”
“You mean like a police artist’s sketch?” his friend asked.
“Exactly.”
* * *
NEWS OF THE BODY found by the river shot through the county like a high-powered rifle report. But since the dead man was found near the Yellowstone River twenty miles away and no one was missing from Beartooth, the news died down quickly.
That was until the sketch of the dead man came out Saturday in the weekly Big Timber newspaper asking if anyone could identify the man.
“Probably just some bum off the interstate,” Jack heard people saying. He hadn’t seen the paper. He’d been too busy on the W Bar G. Nor was he interested. All his attention Saturday morning at the café was on Kate LaFond.
“Some homeless guy. Or a hobo,” he heard people saying.
He smiled to himself. Were there still hoboes who rode the rails?
The Branding Iron Café was packed this morning. Not because of the news about the dead man being found by the river a few days ago, but because the Sweetgrass County Spring Fair was this weekend in Big Timber.
Everyone looked forward to the fair. It was a sign that spring had finally arrived. The fair had everything from a rodeo, cattle auction and carnival, to arts-and-crafts booths and a swap meet. Plus it was a great