Page 15

C HAPTER F IFTEEN

T he more Sam learned about Ethel Grishman’s death, the more convinced he became that Charlie had murdered her. His last interview with Mariah had solidified that belief.

“Ethel was your friend, Mariah,” he’d said. “You’ve already told me that Charlie mistreated her. When she died, did you have any reason to think he might have killed her?”

Mariah had sighed. “At the time, I couldn’t imagine it. She loved her grandson, in spite of his ambitions. And she’d never mentioned any fear that he might harm her. But she seemed tired all the time and so confused that she’d had to stop driving. When I mentioned it and suggested she see a doctor, she said it was just old age. The next time I went to visit her, Charlie met me at the door and said she was sleeping and couldn’t be disturbed. A few days later, I learned that she’d died. It did seem strange that he wouldn’t have taken her to the clinic. But murder? I never thought of that. Not until now.”

“Is there any chance that Frank discovered what Charlie had done and Charlie killed him for it?” Sam had asked.

“I can’t imagine that. Nobody expected foul play. And Frank wouldn’t have known anything. If he had, he would have told me.”

Recalling the conversation, it was easy for Sam to believe that Charlie had poisoned his grandmother. But that wasn’t evidence. The only evidence, if any, lay under six feet of earth on Charlie’s ranch.

Now Sam had a choice. He could walk away from the whole dirty business and get back to his real job. Or he could confront Charlie face-to-face.

He already knew what he would choose. He would go to the game ranch, face Charlie, and hope to get answers he could use. He would do it for the sake of those wretched animals, yes, but mostly for Jasmine.

* * *

Charlie stood on the terrace sipping Scotch from a crystal glass—the last of a set that had belonged to his grandmother. The sun’s dying rays cast long shadows over the scrubland. Insects fluttered around the porch light. A coyote’s yipping wail echoed through the dusk.

Everything was in readiness for the hunt.

In less than an hour, the client would arrive. Hubert Greenway was a retired Texas businessman who’d hunted here before. For the thrill of gunning down an elephant, he’d put down $20,000, which was less than half of what a bare-bones African hunt would cost. Others had bid higher, but Hubert had experience with shooting big game. He also had the cash to pay up front.

Charlie couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong. When the old female wasn’t riled, she was as docile as a milk cow. But an elephant was an elephant, powerful enough to kill a man with a stomp of one foot. Her size alone was imposing enough to strike terror into a hunter’s heart. Faced with a five-ton animal, even experienced marksmen had been known to freeze, too thunderstruck to shoot.

When Hubert stalked his elephant, Charlie would be standing backup with his 577 Nitro Express, a gun with the power to kill anything on four legs. Charlie had never shot an elephant, but he trusted the weapon, which was the favorite of the world’s most celebrated big game hunters.

The elephant—which Charlie still called Jasmine—was tethered behind the big mesquite clump by an ankle chain, with a flake of hay to keep her quiet. When the hunt started, she’d be turned loose and herded out by Charlie’s workers dressed as bearers. They would make a racket and prod her in the right direction. Charlie hoped she’d be mad enough to put on a good show.

A bonfire had been laid in the front yard and would be lit to welcome the client when he arrived. To add to the ambience, a recording of African night sounds would play on a speaker from inside the house.

Charlie was about to pour himself another finger of Scotch when he noticed something out of place in the carefully raked yard. It was a pile of reeking pig dung, left behind like a gesture of contempt. The blasted feral hogs had been hanging around most of the day. He’d shot a couple of them for cat meat and driven the rest off. But now they’d come by again, as if to leave him a calling card.

Using the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, he called an employee to bury the mess and make sure the hogs were gone. The workman had come with a shovel and was just digging the hole when Charlie saw headlights moving through the main gate.

Had his client arrived early? Swearing, Charlie put down his Scotch, switched on the speaker with the African night sounds, turned off the porch light, and hurried down the steps to ignite the bonfire. The kerosene-soaked wood had begun to blaze before he realized his mistake.

The driver of the approaching black SUV wasn’t Hubert Greenway. It was that God-cursed, trouble-making FBI man, Sam Rafferty.

* * *

Wearing the Glock under his jacket, Sam pulled onto the gravel strip alongside the house and stepped out of his vehicle. From where he stood, he could see the dancing flames in the front yard and hear what sounded like the track from an old Tarzan movie. In the yard, a man dressed like someone’s idea of an African native was shoveling dirt into a hole.

As Sam rounded the corner of the house, the porch light came on. The sound effects abruptly ceased. Dressed head to toe in big game hunter regalia, Charlie strode across the veranda toward him. Only then did Sam realize what must be happening. The elephant hunt was set for tonight, complete with costumes and sound effects. The star of the production—the old lady elephant—would be somewhere out of sight, awaiting the arrival of the client who’d paid big money to kill her.

Sam felt vaguely sick. He should have come here sooner. As it was, he might be too late to stop the travesty.

“This isn’t a good time, Agent,” Charlie said. “If you have anything to say to me, you’ll need to come back later.”

“You don’t seem too busy now, Charlie,” Sam said. “I can tell you’re waiting for somebody. Is it your client? Is that why you turned the light on when you realized it was me? Are you about to stage your elephant hunt?”

Charlie’s small eyes gleamed with hatred. “I told you, what I’m doing here is perfectly legal. I have a licensed business on my own property. And I have a bill of sale for the animal. Killing it is no more illegal than slaughtering a steer or a hog.”

“It may not be illegal, but it’s inhumane,” Sam said. “That poor elephant belongs in a sanctuary.”

“Now you’re talking like your bleeding-heart girlfriend.” Charlie glanced past him, looking toward the gate as if expecting to see headlights.

“Maybe so,” Sam said. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’ve learned some things about your property and how you got your hands on it.” Sam was bluffing now. He’d learned nothing that could be proven. He could only hope that Charlie might slip and give him more.

“What are you talking about?” Charlie sputtered. “I inherited this land from my grandmother. It was in her will.”

“Your grandmother, Ethel Grishman, was a healthy woman who sickened and died under suspicious circumstances. You didn’t even take her to a doctor or let her friend visit her before she died. When she was gone, you buried her here on the ranch, without an autopsy or even a service. But the last friend who saw her described bruising and weakness consistent with an overdose of blood thinners, possibly warfarin.”

“You’re out of your mind!” Charlie had gone rigid. “Even if that was true, which it isn’t, you wouldn’t have a chance in hell of proving it.” He glanced uneasily toward the gate, where a pair of headlights could be seen, coming closer. “I didn’t kill my grandma. And I didn’t kill that sonofabitch Frank. Now get out of here and let me get back to work.”

Using a remote device, Charlie turned off the porch light and switched on the jungle sound effects. As the headlights cleared the gate, Sam remained where he was. He’d been ordered to leave, but Charlie wouldn’t create a scene in front of an important client—especially a confrontation with a federal agent.

Sam had no power to stop the hunt and no grounds for arresting Charlie. But at least he could witness the sad event and sneak a few shots with his phone camera to share on social media. Jasmine would be glad to help with that. Maybe the photos would stir up enough outrage to get something done about Charlie.

The worker with the shovel had vanished. As the vehicle parked and the driver turned off the engine, Sam moved back into the shadow of the overhanging roof to watch and listen. Charlie swaggered down the steps to meet the newcomer, a scarecrow figure of a man in his late sixties, dressed in khakis and carrying an outsized gun case. He walked with an awkward limp.

The two shook hands. “You’re right on time, Hubert,” Charlie said. “Are you ready for some action?”

“Ready to go.” The man spoke with a Texas drawl. “With my bad knees, I’d never survive an African hunt. But I’ve vowed to shoot an elephant before I die. This will be my last chance.”

“You told me you had a rifle that would do the job.” Charlie glanced at the heavy carrying case.

The man looked old, his youthful vigor long faded. If this was to be his last hunt, he clearly meant to go out in a blaze of glory. “I brought my new Heym Express bolt action,” he said, setting down the case. “I hope it’ll do the job.”

“It should,” Charlie said. “I’ve never shot that model, but I’ve read some good reviews. If anything goes wrong, I’ll be behind you with my 577 Nitro.”

“You won’t need it. In fact, I don’t want you there, Charlie. I know that this hunt is staged. But I want it to be as real as possible. That means me against the elephant with no backup. I’m an old man. If I lose, I lose. There are worse ways to die.”

“I understand,” Charlie said. “But I can’t risk the bad press if a client get hurt—or worse.”

“This isn’t about bad press. I paid to hunt and kill that elephant. For twenty thousand dollars, I should be allowed to do it alone, without a damned babysitter.”

“All right. If you insist,” Charlie lied. He would keep his distance, but there was no way he’d allow Hubert to face a deadly animal without backup. “But you’d better be prepared to kill that beast with a single shot, or we’ll have a wounded elephant on our hands.”

Hubert didn’t appear to be listening. He was staring up toward the porch where Sam had just stepped into sight. “I didn’t know you had company,” he said.

Charlie shot Sam a look of pure hatred. “I believe my visitor was about to leave,” he said.

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind,” Sam said. “I’ve never seen one of your hunts, Charlie. I’m looking forward to some excitement.” He came down the steps and approached the client.

“Sam Rafferty,” he said, extending his hand.

With an awkward expression, the man accepted his handshake. “Hubert Greenway,” he said. “I wasn’t aware that we were going to have an audience.”

“Neither did Charlie. Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of the way. You won’t even know I’m here.” Sam could feel the hostility radiating from Charlie like heat from a blast furnace. But as he’d expected, Charlie wouldn’t make a scene in front of a paying client.

A gibbous moon, just rising in the east, cast its pale light over the landscape. Mounting the steps again, Sam stood at the railing and watched Charlie usher his guest toward the fire and offered him a camp chair. With the gun case laid open on a folding table, they removed and inspected the heavy-duty weapon. As they were loading the ammunition, Sam heard a sound from somewhere beyond the firelight—a sound that chilled his blood. Ringing through the darkness, it was the trumpeting cry of the doomed elephant.

The creature was probably chained somewhere out in the brush. When the man with the giant gun was ready, she would be released and prodded forward into the open. Sam could only hope the ending would be swift and merciful.

There was nothing he could do to save her. But if he got some clear photos and posted them where they’d be seen, maybe the poor old lady wouldn’t have lost her life for nothing.

Unsettled, perhaps, by the unearthly cry, Greenway dropped a high-powered shell into the dust at his feet. He scooped it up and, without cleaning it, crammed it into the breech. Hefting the weapon to his shoulder, he peered through the scope, which probably wouldn’t be needed. The elephant would be too close for that.

Greenway took his place. Charlie stood a dozen yards behind him with his own rifle. Sam recognized it as a 577 Nitro Express, the traditional gun used for big game hunting. Sam had heard Charlie tell his client that he wouldn’t be standing backup. Either he’d lied or changed his mind. Greenway appeared not to notice. To Sam, he appeared nervous as he braced for the elephant’s charge.

The risen moon hung above the horizon, lending enough light to see clearly now. Greenway chambered a shell in readiness. Charlie did the same, then took a flare pistol from his belt and fired a signal into the air.

The flare whined upward and burst against the dark sky. As the sparks fell and faded, the beaters in the brush began their clatter, pounding on drums and pans, shouting and chanting. The elephant’s scream shattered the night as the huge animal, driven by the beaters, crashed through the scrub.

Sam could make out the elephant now, a hulking shape lumbering through the brush, maybe fifty yards distant. Greenway raised his rifle, aimed carefully, and squeezed the trigger.

The gun didn’t fire.

From where he stood, Sam couldn’t hear the ominous click, but he could imagine the sound of it, followed by more clicks as Greenway pulled the trigger again and again. Shrieking a curse, he flung his rifle to the ground.

Charlie charged forward, the 577 Nitro Express raised to his shoulder. With a shout of “No!” Greenway snatched the rifle away from him and swung it into position. The elephant was less than forty yards away now, lumbering head-on, trumpeting in fury, or maybe fear, as Greenway aimed.

That was when the unthinkable happened. A dark, bulky shape barreled across the elephant’s path, followed by another, and another. Feral hogs, spooked by the commotion, were racing around in panic, grunting and squealing.

Startled and scared, the elephant bellowed, swung to the right, and charged off at an angle, moving away from the shooter The workmen tried to turn her with their pointed sticks, but they were clearly afraid of being trampled. Nothing was going to stop the giant animal from going her own way.

Greenway, who had Charlie’s 577 now, swung the weapon to follow her, but now he could aim only for her side and rear. Any bullet that hit her would only deliver a wound, driving her mad with pain and rendering her deadly dangerous. Still, it appeared that Greenway was determined to get his quarry.

Sam sprinted down the steps and launched himself into the melee of milling hogs and yelling men. If he could keep Greenway from shooting the elephant, there might be a chance of saving her. But he couldn’t get close enough, and even if he could, his Glock would be useless. He was helpless to stop what was happening. He could only watch with his heart in his throat.

Unarmed now, Charlie flung himself at his client. “Don’t shoot, you fool!” he shouted. “Give me the gun.”

But Greenway, like a man obsessed, was intent on finishing what he’d come to do. He swung the barrel hard, hitting Charlie with a blow that knocked him backward to sprawl in the dust. Charlie struggled to stand, but the fall had injured him. One leg buckled beneath him. He collapsed to his knees, blocking Greenway’s line of fire.

“Don’t shoot, Hubert!” Charlie yelled. “You don’t want to wound her! We can try again later!”

At the sound of that hated voice, the elephant stopped in her tracks. With a scream of rage, she swung back in Charlie’s direction. Her raised trunk gave Greenway the perfect target for a heart shot.

“For God’s sake, man, shoot!” Charlie was in her path, struggling to get to his feet.

Greenway braced the stock of the rifle against his shoulder. Even at a distance, Sam could see that his aim was off. His finger squeezed the trigger. In the next instant, the deafening shot shattered the night.

As the confusion cleared, the bellowing elephant wheeled and bolted off, scattering the beaters in her path. The recoil had knocked Greenway onto his back. As Sam fought his way toward him, the aging hunter sat up, massaging his bruised shoulder and looking stunned. The gun lay where he’d dropped it.

Charlie lay face-up in the dust, his torso blasted by a shot that packed enough force to penetrate the armored hide of a rhino. He wasn’t moving. Sam forced himself to look at him. Checking his vitals would be a waste of time. No human could survive that kind of damage.

Seeing Charlie’s remains, and realizing what he’d done, Greenway curled into a shaking ball with his knees pulled against his chest. His shoulders heaved with silent sobs.

The hogs had scattered. The elephant, panicked but unhurt, was charging away through the thick scrub. Sam shouted at the workers to track her until she became calm and could be lured back to the compound with food.

He would make it his responsibility to see that she and the other animals went to safe places. Jasmine should know what to do. She would be happy to help him. If there was an inquest into Charlie’s death, he would verify, as an eyewitness, that the shooting had been an accident and, except for incompetence and a bad case of nerves, Greenway was blameless.

Sam had just made the call to 911 when he heard a low groan from behind him. He turned. Charlie was looking at him with slitted eyes in a bloodless face. Incredibly, he was alive. But Sam’s experience with severe injuries told him the man was on the verge of dying.

Crouching, Sam knelt over him. “Hang on, Charlie. The ambulance is on the way,” he said.

“Too late . . .” Charlie’s mouth twisted into a hideous grin. “You think you won, you sonofabitch . . .” Every syllable he spoke was bought with excruciating effort. “But you had questions . . . Did I kill my grandma? Did I murder Frank? . . . Now you’ll never know. You’ll go to your grave wondering.” His laugh ended in a gurgle. “See you in hell, Agent . . .”

His expression froze in death.

* * *

The muffled ringing of a phone woke Jasmine in the night. She reached for her cell phone on the nightstand. Only then did she realize that the sound was coming from her dresser drawer, where she’d hidden the burner under a stack of underwear.

The phone was still ringing. Only Sam had the number. She vaulted out of bed and flung herself across the room to pull the phone out of the drawer.

“Sam?” She was muzzy-headed and out of breath.

“Yes, it’s me. How are you?”

Jasmine hesitated. “I’m fine,” she lied. “But you wouldn’t be calling me just to ask. Is something wrong?”

“Charlie’s dead.” Sam gave her a few seconds for the news to sink in. “He was shot during a hunt. I saw it happen. It was an accident. Now I need your help.”

“The animals!” She was already ahead of him. “Are they all right?”

“For now. I paid the workers to feed them. But they need places to go. Sanctuaries, rescues, anyone who can shelter them. There’s the usual menagerie of hoof stock and cats. And there’s an elephant, an old girl who’s been through a rough time. I was hoping you’d have some idea who to call.”

“An elephant? Good heavens! Yes, I know people with connections who can help. I’ll make the calls for you first thing in the morning. I’m sorry I can’t be there to take charge. I can’t leave my mother.”

” How is your mother?” he asked.

“I don’t really know, Sam. Sometimes she seems fine. But then she has these headaches that are so bad she can’t even get out of bed. She won’t see a doctor. I can’t make her go. But I can’t leave. If she gets worse, or even dies, I’ll need to be here for her.”

“I understand, and I’m sorry.” He paused. “I love you, Jasmine. I miss you like crazy.”

“I love you, too,” she said, knowing she couldn’t tell him what was really going on or how scared she felt.

“We’ll get through this,” he said. “Just know that I’ll be here for you.”

“I know. I’ll make those calls. It’ll give me something positive to do.”

“Thanks. Give the rescue people my number. I’ll make sure they get to the right place.”

Through the wall, Jasmine heard a stirring in the next room, where her mother slept. The ringing phone may have awakened her. “I’ve got to go,” she said, forcing herself to end the call.

As she hid the burner phone again and closed the drawer, a wave of emotion crashed over her. She pressed her hands to her face, feeling the tears. Sam was the best thing ever to come into her crazy, messed-up life. She ached with love for him. But the hope of a future together was fading with every day she spent here—in a place that had become a prison.

“Jasmine!” Her mother was calling. Pulling on her robe, Jasmine hurried down the hall to the next room. The door was closed, as Madeleine preferred it, but the walls were thin. She had probably overheard much of her daughter’s conversation.

A bedside lamp cast a glow over her mother’s room. Madeleine sat propped against pillows that matched the mauve silk coverlet on the bed. Her abundant hair was tousled, her eyes smudged from the makeup she’d worn earlier to go out with Louis.

Jasmine hurried to mother’s bedside. “What is it, Mama? Are you having one of your headaches?”

“No, dear.” Madeleine raked her hair back from her face. With her chiseled, almost masculine features, she was a stunning woman. It was hard to believe she was so ill. “Your phone call woke me up, that’s all. Who was it? Was it Sam?”

“Yes, it was Sam.” Even a harmless lie could be a dangerous mistake.

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing you’d be concerned about. He was calling because Charlie Grishman is dead. He needs my help finding rescuers for those poor animals. I said I’d make some calls.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. I told him I loved him.”

“You’re sure that was all?”

“I’m positive. You know that the last thing I want is for Sam—or the FBI—to show up here.”

Madeleine nodded. “That’s very wise. I’m fond of Sam. But if he gets involved with you here, I can’t guarantee his safety—or yours. You know Louis. He isn’t a trusting man. That’s how he’s managed to survive for so long.”

“Yes, I know.” How many people had Louis Divino killed—or arranged to have killed—just because he didn’t trust them or because they knew too much and were no longer useful? A shudder passed through Jasmine’s body.

She took a seat on the edge of the bed. “Why do you stay with him, Mother? He’s not a good man.”

“He’s good to me. He treats me like he loves me, which is more than I can say for your father. We have fun together. And the sex . . . oh, my!”

“Mother!”

Madeleine chuckled. “Don’t be such a prig, darling. You’re over twenty-one. And since I don’t know how much longer I’ll be around, I plan to drain every drop of pleasure from the life I have left. Besides, Louis and I know we can trust each other. When I die, I’ll carry his secrets to my grave—along with a few of my own.”

In other words, he won’t have to kill you to keep you quiet.

Jasmine knew better than to speak that thought aloud. She knew her mother was involved in at least some of Louis Divino’s criminal enterprises. But aside from the overheard mention of drugs, she didn’t know which ones or how deeply Madeleine was enmeshed. She only knew that getting caught with Louis’s phone had signed her death warrant. If she were to leave and go on the run, she would be tracked down and killed. And if she stayed until her mother passed on, she would never leave the condo alive.

Madeline took a sip of mineral water from the bottle on her nightstand. “Go on back to bed, darling,” she said. “I’m going to sleep now. I’ll be fine.”

Jasmine brushed a kiss on her mother’s forehead. “All right. Call me if you need anything.”

Wide awake now, she left her mother’s room and wandered down the hall, through the parlor, and out onto the balcony. The night wind stirred her hair and raised glimmering ripples on the surface of the lake. She closed her eyes, savoring its coolness on her face. First thing tomorrow, she would call the animal rescue people she knew and give them Sam’s phone number. But she would not call Sam again, not even on the burner. And she’d be wary of accepting any calls from him. The risk was too great. Even her own mother couldn’t be trusted to keep their contact a secret.

She had to keep him safe, even if it meant that she’d never hear his voice again.