A 2004 Tale

The anvil of justice is planted firm, and fate who makes the sword does the forging in advance. ~ Aeschylus

Monday Afternoon

3 P.M.

            "Hey there!" Mandy greeted Joe Cartwright brightly, smiling up at him as he juggled a cardboard box full of files and notebooks. "Glad to see you doin' your own movin'! Been too many times when you fellas leave the hard work to us gals."

            Joe dropped the box on the corner of Mandy's cluttered desk, just missing her computer keyboard, and scowled at her. When a project for Cartwright and Sons Construction came to an end, all of the jobsite files and papers had to come into the main office to be tucked away. The Northern Paiute Council's casino was now finished and, with winter leaning hard on the area, no new work would start until the early spring when the deep snows began to disappear. That meant that everything from his gray office trailer would be brought into the bowels of the granite and glass building his brother had designed and built to house the family's business. Joe halfway dreaded this move. He was far more comfortable out in the field but, as Adam had pointed out, there was still too much snow on the field that early February.

            "You gals? I seem to recall more than once getting that "this is too heavy for me. Can you carry it out to the truck, Joe?" business. And I would gallantly hustle over to do my knightly duty and protect the fair young maidens from hurting their backs. Forget about all the times I strained mine because you would fill the box with everything short of the kitchen sink. I swear, only a woman thinks she could move the entire contents of an office in one box." By the time Joe had finished his explanation, Mandy was having difficulty stifling her giggles. As he leaned onto the box, about to continue with his mock-tirade for her entertainment, the box slid on the desktop and collided with her keyboard and coffee cup.

            "Oh no! You!" the little blonde yelped. She stood quickly to avoid the spreading puddle of coffee from the styrofoam cup Joe's box had tipped over. But as quickly as she rose, she flopped back down into her chair, her features going white.

            Ignoring the box and the spreading coffee, Joe pulled Mandy, still in her chair, around and knelt in front her. He rested one hand on her knee and used the other to lift her chin. "Hey, girl, you okay? You're as white as a sheet!"

            Even as he watched, Mandy swallowed convulsively a few times and blinked her wide blue eyes. Then she smiled but it wasn't the blinding variety she was known for. "Sure, I'm okay. And you better get up. One of the old biddies around here sees you on your knees in front of me, touching me, and they'll be running up to your brother."

            As if he were about to be burnt by her words, Joe's hands jerked back and he stood up. Mandy smiled compassionately up at him. He pulled at the front of his shirt and huffed then settled on standing there with his hands perched on his hips.

            "We've been friends for too long, Joe. But these other women and some of the men too, I might add, wouldn't understand. They'd say that you and I were, " she paused as someone passed her open office doorway, "that we were -"

            "Doing what we did years ago before 'sexual harassment' became the hue and cry of every idiot who didn't understand the difference between a friendly hug and a romantic embrace. I guess Adam was right."

            "And just what was I right about?" a deep voice asked. At the doorway to Mandy’s office, Adam Cartwright leaned on the jamb and crossed his arms. The way his head was cocked told both of the office’s occupants that he expected an answer. Promptly.

            "That people see just what they want to see. Mandy, where you want this box?" Over his shoulder, Joe’s look challenged his brother to say another word.

            "Back here," Mandy gestured towards a door at the back of her office. "Put it on the right-hand side, towards the back." To further indicate where she wanted it put, she followed Joe into the cavernous storage space, flicking on the light. She let the door slide shut behind her, praying it wouldn’t be opened by Adam.

            Joe dropped the box onto the metal shelving where he saw others labeled the same way. With a shove, he aligned the box then quickly turned to Mandy.

            Even in the bright light from the fluorescent overheads, Mandy looked half sick and, checking to make sure they were alone and the door closed, Joe took her by the shoulders and studied her closely.

            "Mandy," he said her name softly, his concern evident. "What’s the matter? Somebody houndin’ you? You look awful upset." He pushed a strand of her blonde hair away from her face.

            "We've been friends for lots of years, Joe. Sometimes closer than friends." As she spoke, Mandy leaned into him, resting her hands against his chest. "I can’t tell nobody and I want to!"

            "Tell what? Mandy, are you in some kind of trouble?"

            Surprisingly, Mandy laughed. "I forgot how you always knew when something was wrong, like when I didn’t feel good or somethin’. Guess I can tell you. I made up my mind, Joe, And I went and done it."

            "Done what?" he repeated.

            Again, she laughed then patted his chest and moved away from him. "Come to my place tonight and I’ll tell you."

            "Mandy, darlin’, you aren’t makin’ any sense."

            "I will tonight. By the way, you got any tools in your Jeep?"

            Joe’s jaw snapped shut and his eyes narrowed. Now he was truly puzzled. "Some."

            "Well, you’ll need a wrench and a hammer." Mandy was chuckling as she pulled the door open and waltzed through, throwing a wink at the befuddled Cartwright behind her.

Monday Evening

5 P.M.

            It was dusk as Joe left the building, his keys jiggling nervously in his hand as he approached his red Jeep. Next to it was still parked Adam’s 1965 Jaguar XKE convertible. He was careful not to bump it since Adam was mighty particular about the vintage sports car. Maybe, Joe considered once more, that was why he loved to rag his brother and call the car The Grape. When the joke had started, Joe hadn’t really understood what it all meant. All he knew was that the car was purple, having faded from its original burgundy. Once more he wondered if he could convince Adam to loan him the car come Friday night. He had a date and the female involved was more luxury-minded than the Jeep afforded him, especially in winter. Yep, he thought, show up at her place in the Grape and they could forget dinner and head straight for dessert.

            "I heard you call home and tell Hop Sing that you wouldn’t be home for supper." Joe jerked away the hand he had let stray to the hood of the Jag when Adam spoke to him.

            "Yeah," he answered, distracted and perturbed that he had been caught. "Got a date tonight."

            "Goin’ home to clean up?" Adam asked nonchalantly as he unlocked his car door.

            "No," Joe replied, yanking his own door open. "My women take me just like I am." He wouldn’t give Adam the pleasure of knowing that it was Mandy he was seeing. He wanted to kick himself when he realized he’d called it a “date.” Long ago, yes, he and Mandy had been a hot item. It had eventually cooled but they were still good friends. Not that some people, Adam included apparently, believed that there was nothing else going on between them.

            When he pulled out of the parking lot, Adam was still standing beside his car but Joe wouldn’t even look back and give his brother any satisfaction. Let him wonder!

            Less than five minutes later and he was parking in front of Mandy’s apartment building. A quick knock on her first floor door and he was smiling at his friend, his tool box from the Jeep in his hand.

            "Take your shoes off. I just had the carpet cleaned and God only knows where you been walkin’, Joe Cartwright!" Mandy ordered, leaving him at the door as she headed into the living room. She had relieved him of his toolbox.

            Muttering under his breath about bossy women, he did as she asked and padded sox-footed after her. As he rounded the corner, he bumped into a large cardboard box that was leaning against the wall. Mandy was on the floor, the toolbox opened, sorting through the wrenches, pliers, screwdrivers, hammer and the like. He steadied the box then stepped back to read what was printed on the side. All he could make out was her address since the rest was written in Oriental script.

            "What the Hell?" he started to say, opening the flap to peer in but Mandy reached up and pulled him down onto the floor beside her.

            "Thanks, Joe. I want you to know I really appreciate your helping me." She handed a large sheet of paper that was covered with diagrams. "I never was good with this sort of thing at school but you always were!"

            Crossing his legs, Joe looked at the drawings of bits and pieces of bolts and metal coming together . . . he flipped the paper over to see the end product.

            "Mandy!" he yelped, his heart in his throat. "This is a baby crib!"

            "And they call you the dumb Cartwright," she teased and nudged him with her shoulder.

            "It’s for babies!"

            She rolled her eyes, sighed and smiled.

            "You mean you’re . . . you’re . . . " Joe floundered for the word but seemed unable to say it.

            Mandy had no problem. "Yep, I’m pregnant, Joe. Oh don’t go looking like someone just killed your dog. You know it ain’t yours. I know it ain’t yours."

            Joe felt as though he was choking and he pulled at his shirt collar. He thought about easing away from her but she put a hand on his arm and held him.

            "I felt the old biological clock tickin’ and figured I had to do something about it. Oh, Joe, be happy for me! I’m gonna have a baby!"

            "Mandy, you are a year younger than I am. That biological clock? It doesn’t tick that loud before you hit thirty."

            "It does," she said, taking her hand away and standing up, "when you’ve decided to raise the child on your own. Joe, seriously, I ain’t after you so quit lookin’ like that! Just be my friend, okay? My momma isn’t gonna understand so someone has to."

            "How about the father? You told him? Give him a chance to do right by you?" Losing the uneasy feeling, Joe stood as well and tugged Mandy around so that she faced him. He saw the tracks of tears on her cheeks.

            "He was a one night stand down in Sacramento. A soldier. I, I went to the bar looking for a man, any man, that night. He don’t need to be saddled by me. Don’t you see, Joe, he doesn’t matter. Only the baby he helped create matters."

            "You telling me that all you were after was sperm on the hoof? That’s cold, Mandy. Why didn’t you go to one of those clinics?"

            "On what your brother pays me? Get real, Cartwright. Look, I’m sorry if it sounds very cold and insulting to your half of the species but I really thought that you could be happy for me. Guess I was wrong. Sorry." Mandy huffed and crossed her arms over her ample chest. The tears ran unfettered down her face and she looked away, trying to hide them.

            Shaking his head, Joe encircled her with his arms, hugging her close. He felt her bury her face on his chest, her tears making warm spots. "No," he whispered into her hair, "it’s me that’s sorry, Mandy. You've got a right to do what you want with your own body. But do me one favor?" He felt her nod so he continued. "Tell your mother. I remember that while she wasn’t the kindest of women to me, she did have motherly instincts in her heart for her only daughter."

            Mandy pulled away from him. She wiped her tears away with the back of her hands and nodded her agreement. Then an impish look crossed her face and she laughed aloud.

            "Thought you were gonna ask me to tell Adam right away. I know I’ve eventually got to say something to him since he is my boss but it can wait a while longer. I’m only a little over thirteen weeks and ain’t showin’ a bit." She patted her belly which, even as Joe looked carefully at it, was only beginning to show a soft roundness. "And I’ll even make sure he knows it ain’t yours!"

            The doorbell rang, cutting off Joe’s relieved laugh.

            "I ordered pizza for us. You got any cash on you, Joe? I forgot to stop at the ATM on the way home."

            As Mandy headed for the kitchen, Joe headed for the door, digging in his jeans' pocket for what money he had. The bell rang again, this time with a persistent and insistent ring that said whoever was at the door was leaning on the bell. Joe shouted that he was coming.

            He opened the door, still fumbling with the crumpled bills and loose change in his pocket. When he looked up, a fist hit him. 

Tuesday morning

7 A.M.

            "I’ll get it," Ben shouted, sure that Hop Sing had never even budged from the kitchen. He came down the stairs with more than his usual vigor as he feared the door couldn’t withstand more pounding. He yanked it open, a harsh greeting in mind.

            On the other side, Roy Coffee, the local county sheriff stood, a fist raised to strike again.

            Behind him, Ben could see his unmarked police car sitting in the driveway, the windshield wipers slapping at the fitful snowfall. It bothered Ben because when Roy came on official business, he never turned the engine off and this morning, he’d left it running.

            "If you promise not to hit the door again, I’ll give you some coffee, Roy," Ben teased, hoping that the sheriff had let the engine run just because it was cold outside.

            "I won’t hit it again," the gray sheriff said, his head nodding as he stepped into the main room of the massive house. There were times when he enjoyed coming to the Ponderosa but this wasn’t one of them and it showed in his demeanor. "Can’t take any coffee from you, Ben. This is official business. Need to see Joe."

            Ben scratched his head, trying to decide how to handle the situation. He had been the last one in the night before and a quick glimpse into the open garage had shown him an empty hole where he could normally see the rear bumper of red Jeep. Moreover, he knew that Roy had noted the hole as well yet he asked for Joe.

            "Joe isn’t home," Adam called out, coming lickedity-split down the stairs, still buttoning his shirt. Behind him, Hoss followed until all four men stood in the open space behind the settee.

            "You sure?" Roy asked, his thumb smoothing his mustache.

            "Jest went by his bedroom door. It’s open," Hoss volunteered. He didn’t add that the bed didn’t look slept in.

            "What’s this all about, Roy?" Ben pressed, taking hold of the lawman’s arm to center his attention.

            "Mandy Roberts was killed last night," he answered bluntly.

            "What’s that got to do with Joe?" Even though his voice was calm, Adam’s stomach was lurching about like a half-beached whale. Mandy and Joe, yesterday afternoon, in the office. Then Joe said he had a date. Was it with Mandy? But it had been over with them two a long time ago.

            "Miz Tucker, Mandy’s neighbor said Joe was there last night. Other evidence agrees with her. You got any idea where Joe might be?" There was something in Roy’s voice that sounded like a plea for them to say that Joe was . . . any place as long as they knew where.

            "You’re holding something back, Roy," Ben educed quickly. "What is it?"

            The lawman swallowed then let his sad eyes hold his old friends in their depths. "Mandy wasn’t just killed last night. Somebody took a knife and cut her up pretty bad. There’s blood all over her apartment." He paused, seeing Hoss turn aside and close his eyes. "There’s plenty of fingerprints but mostly they seem to be Mandy’s. But Forensics found one, a palm print, in blood by the door. It’s a man’s."

            Ben Cartwright went white, his breathing coming in ragged gasps as he tried to assess what Roy was telling him. "The print . . .," he stammered then could speak no further.

            "I checked it first thing after talkin’ with Miz Tucker. It’s Joe’s, Ben."

            It became so quiet in the room that everyone could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock and the crackle of the fire in the hearth.

            Adam finally broke the spell. "Are we to assume that Joe may have been kidnapped?"

            Surprisingly, Roy shook his head ‘no’. "Miz Tucker says she saw Joe walk out and get in his Jeep and drive away. She doesn’t remember what time it was." He let that information sink in then continued. "Right now, we want to talk to Joe. That’s all, Ben, just talk to him."

            "What you mean is that he’s under suspicion for Mandy’s murder, don’t you?" challenged Adam, his voice taking a keen edge.

            The sheriff looked unflinchingly at Adam. "I said we want to talk to him and that’s exactly what I meant. Talk." He took a deep breath. "We’re pretty sure that he wasn’t hurt, Ben."

            Drawn back into the conversation, the Nevada Congressman jerked as though the sheriff had struck him. "What makes you so sure?"

            "So far, all the blood sampled has been Mandy’s."

            Adam saw Roy Coffee out with a promise that should any one of them have any contact with Joe that he would be the first to know. It had been exchanged for a promise that, for the time being, the Cartwright’s phones would not be tapped nor would the house and their respective offices be under surveillance. The promise was based on the understanding that they were, above all else, law biding individuals.

            Seated at the end of the dining room table, Ben found he had no appetite. He was embarrassed to admit that he had trouble placing Mandy Roberts. Hoss had said that she and Joe had dated some in high school but Ben still couldn’t hook a face to her name. There had been so many young girls in Joseph’s life that they had all begun to look alike to his father. Chagrined, Ben asked Adam about her.

            "She’s the young lady who runs errands for Cartwright and Sons Construction."

            The pieces all clicked and he remembered her. A bright pixish girl, full of laughter but, Ben sighed at the memory, little else to make her noteworthy. He recalled being relieved when Joe had moved onto a different girl and was pleased when Adam said that as far as he knew, Joe and Mandy were just good friends.

            "Then why did Joe tell you he had a date if he was just goin’ over to Mandy’s?" Hoss asked, taking a healthy portion of flapjacks onto his plate.

            "Don’t know. What do we do now, Pa?”"

            "We let Roy do his job. We do ours. If he has been kidnapped, his abductors will find us whether we are at the State House or your office. Hoss, I would appreciate it if you stayed close to the house here today. Keep your cell phones on and with you at all times, boys." Ben rapped out orders but found his mouth suddenly dry and knew it was fear that made it that way.

            The last place Ben Cartwright wanted to be that day was on the floor of the Nevada State Assembly but as the Speaker and Majority Whip, he was expected to be there. Shrugging out of his heavy jacket, he showed his ID to the guard at the door. He nodded his greeting to the man then went on into the deep bowels of the silver-topped building. His office on the second floor looked out over the small park that was covered in snow that winter morning but he stood at the window and looked at it any way.

            "Mister Cartwright?" a soft voice, a woman’s called to him, breaking into his wandering thoughts. "They’re expecting you downstairs, I believe."

            Turning, Ben greeted his secretary. Absentmindedly, he asked about any emails he may have gotten overnight.

            "Just the usual, sir," she sighed. "One of your constituents wants a renewal of his suspended liquor license. Another one says that if you vote to raise the property taxes again, he’ll vote for someone else next time. The Citizens for Repeal of Capital Punishment sent one, two, three emails. They want to see the law in Nevada not just clarified but repealed. One went so far as to even suggest that if it were your son, how would you vote? Then there’s one from some group wanting a law allowing the euthanasia of the wild horses. Don’t they know that’s federal?"

            Ben tried to smile for her but failed. "There’s been a little problem out at the ranch. If I get a call from one of my sons or Roy Coffee, page me immediately then put it through to the nearest phone." He picked up the stack of documents on the corner of his desk then descended to the Assembly Room.

            As the morning wore on, he found it ever more difficult to concentrate on the matters at hand. Laws, important to the state, were being discussed and he sat there, his mind sifting through all the parental chaff of raising three sons. He knew it had been a mistake to carry on as usual but what else could he do? The sane part of him repeated that if Joseph had been kidnapped, those responsible would contact him no matter where he was. If, for some strange reason, Joe had just taken off after Mandy’s brutal murder then he would be found by the police. Roy had assured him that he would just be questioned. There wasn’t a doubt in Ben’s mind that Joe had not killed her.

            Whispering just as loudly in his mind’s ear was the insane part that longed to be cruising the highways, digging into backrooms, slamming open motel doors, searching for his son. There was an undercurrent of lawlessness still in these Nevada mountains that made a man like him, a respected man and normally law-abiding citizen, carry a loaded revolver under the seat of his car. It didn’t matter that the state showed its civilized face to the tourist; it was eager to take their money at the casinos. That had been the haven of the organized crime not long ago but in the past few years, due much in part to strong legislation, the Mob was gone. In its wake, though, Ben knew small-time criminals abounded. These were the ones he feared most of all. Were these the people who had his son? Why?

            As he sat overseeing the proceedings, listening with only half an ear to the debate, he consoled himself with the thought that Adam was probably at that very moment searching for his brother. Ben almost chuckled at an inopportune moment, thinking of how he could demand one thing and get its exact opposite from his sons. Once more, he shoved aside his personal life and took to listening more carefully to the debate going on before him.

            It concerned an upcoming vote on two linked bills. The first bill, known by an incomprehensible string of numbers and letters, was for the outright repeal of Nevada’s capital punishment law. Yes, Ben thought as he again looked through his notes, there were problems with the law. It allowed for the death penalty for the mentally retarded; the appeal structure wasn’t clearly defined. In short, it wasn’t in line with other states’ death penalty laws. But was that justification to do away with it completely? Ben shook his head.

            The other part of the link allowed for the clarification of the death penalty. It tightened all the loopholes. In addition, it also clearly delineated those crimes worthy of the consideration of the death penalty. It added the murder of policemen, firemen and public officials while pursuing their duties as grounds for the ultimate penalty. It did away with the possibility of sending a severely mentally retarded individual to Death Row. Another grounds for consideration was multiple murders committed in a brutal fashion.

            Ben was thankful that as the leader of the Assembly, he would be called on to vote only in the case of a tie. He figured that a vote either way could cost him constituents. His own sons were divided -

            His thoughts slammed together like a freight train behind a stalled locomotive. What had his secretary said? Something about one of his emails mentioning one of his sons? From that haywire group wanting to repeal the law? Yes, the Citizens for the Repeal of Capital Punishment, that was their name. With his heart pounding, he glanced at the clock. Almost noon and time for a recess. He reached out and grabbed the wooden gavel and, with a loud bang, ended the debate going on before the Assembly. He barely paused to gather his things before racing up the stairs to his office and his phone. He had a call to put into Roy.

            When his father had left, Adam had made short work of his breakfast and left in a hurry. On the drive into his office, he ran through all of the things he thought he knew about his brother. On the top of the list was his honesty. Adam knew he wouldn’t run so that left only one possibility: he had been taken but how was that to be proven against Lydia Tucker’s eyewitness accounting? Scowling, Adam passed his office building and drove to Mandy’s apartment.

            The yellow tape cordoning off the crime scene didn’t stop him. Adam lifted the tape and slipped beneath it. One of the officers on duty had gone to school with him and Adam greeted him by name, asking if anything interesting had been found. As he spoke, he glanced around the small apartment.

            What he saw both sickened and angered him. Arcing streaks of blood went half way up the white walls in the living room. A trail went into the kitchen on the floor. There, on the black and white tiles, was the outline of a sprawled body. His stomach twisting, he left the kitchen and returned to the living room. On the coffee table, a pizza box sat, the lid cocked. He lifted it. The pizza had not been touched. On the floor was a small tool box that Adam recognized as having been his brother’s. He didn’t need to study it any further than to see the initials burned into the hammer handle. Lying there beside it, covered in blood, was a screwdriver.

            "And just what do you think you’re doin’ here?" the gruff voice asked right behind him, making Adam straighten quickly, knocking into a large flat box leaning against the wall. He made sure it stayed put then turned around.

            "I just came by, Roy, that’s all." There was more to it than either man would admit to. "Thought I would see what they are going to use as evidence to hang this on Joe."

            Taking him by elbow, the sheriff directed Adam away from the living room and into the short corridor leading to the front door. Adam didn’t go easily.

            "Tell me something," Roy started, "Joe and Mandy. They worked together, right?"

            "Sometimes. Mandy was our errand girl. She might see him once, twice a week when he was out at a jobsite. She’d take paychecks out on Fridays, that sort of thing. Why do you ask?"

            "Was he seein’ her? Like on a personal level?" Roy’s thumb was pressed hard against Adam’s arm.

            Trying to pull his arm away, Adam replied through clenched teeth, "They were friends. Good friends. Why?" Even as he said it, he recalled the afternoon before when he had intercepted a conversation between them and had caught Joe kneeling before her. When Roy took too long to answer, Adam demanded, "Why?"

            "'Cause Mandy was in a family way, that’s why. From what I got from her mother and Miz Tucker, Mandy didn’t have a boyfriend. And the way we found things here, it looks like whoever killed Mandy knew she was pregnant. Adam, are you sure?"

            His temper rising quickly to the boiling point, Adam clamped down hard on the sheriff’s restraining hand and thrust it away. "Maryellen Roberts didn’t give a rat’s ass about her daughter. I know because I talked with Mandy about it not long ago. Told her she needed to get her mother out of that trailer park she lives in and into some place decent. Mandy told me then that her mother had thrown her out of the house six months ago and she hadn’t talked to her since. And Lydia Tucker is a busybody!"

            "Still Adam, we got facts, evidence to consider. We know Joe was here. Got his prints."

            "How do you know they’re his?" Adam hissed.

            "Back when your company built the annex on the new county prison, everybody having access to the job had to be fingerprinted, remember? Joe worked with you out there. Ran one of your crews as I recall right about that time. We still have those prints on file. Adam," Roy’s voice softened as he first glanced back into the apartment then back at the man before him. "Best thing you can do right now is get a lawyer. Joe’s gonna need one. His running off from this don’t look good."

            With an overwhelming feeling of loss, Adam sighed and decided that Roy had a point. He would return to his office and make some calls. As he turned to go outside, he pulled his keys from his jacket pocket.

            "Adam, I am sorry ‘bout all this," Roy admitted and tapped Adam on the shoulder.

            Adam dropped his keys and stooped to pick them up. "Roy," he spoke up while still hunched down, "Did Miz Tucker say anything about him walking funny when he supposedly left here?"

            "No, she didn’t mention anything out of the ordinary."

            "Well, if Joe left here under his own steam, why did he walk out barefoot?" Adam righted himself slowly, a pair of battered brown boots in his hand. "These are his boots. Considering the amount of snow out there and how cold it was last night, I can’t see anyone forgetting something as essential as their boots. Can you?"

            The look on the sheriff’s face brightened for a moment at this revelation then his cell phone rang and he stepped away to answer it. Adam set the boots back down where he had found them, painfully aware that the bloody handprint right above them was probably the one his brother had left.

            Closing up his phone, Roy Coffee came back to Adam, his expression now saddened. "That was the lab boys, Adam. We’re gonna change things around a little. We’re not looking for Joe as a possible suspect anymore. One of those blood samples wasn’t Mandy’s. We’re gonna assume it’s his. Now we’re looking for a possible second victim."

            Adam leaned against the wall and wondered how things had gone so wrong so quick.

Tuesday Afternoon

2:30 P.M.

            "I don’t understand it either, Ben!" Roy Coffee all but shouted to the man across the desk from him. He was sure that the words were heard clear to the holding cells there at the County facility, even with the door closed to his glass-enclosed office.

            There on his battered old desk, Ben Cartwright had dropped a printed copy of an email. Roy had read it twice but each time came to the same conclusion: not enough evidence to arrest. Yes, it made allusions to Ben’s sons but anyone with access to the Internet could find that information out easily enough since Roy knew for a fact that the family construction business had a website complete with pictures.

            "Have there been any ransom notices? Any suspicious phone calls? Any emails to any of you?" Roy asked and to each, heard Ben’s same answer: no. "Then we can’t do anything beyond what we’re doing now. We have an APB out on his Jeep. You put a hold on his credit cards, right? What about his cell phone?"

            Adam, seated behind his father, spoke up. "Called and cancelled it first thing this morning, along with his company gas card. There’s been no activity on any of his credit cards in the last seventy-two hours and the phone company says the last call he made was to the Ranch about five yesterday afternoon. I overheard that call."

            "Any idea how much cash he would have had on him?" Roy asked, a pencil tapping on his desktop.

            Again, Adam answered, this time while running a hand through his hair. "His paycheck was cashed Friday evening. He put all but a hundred of it in the bank. I know he went out Friday night and had a few beers." He heard his father’s huff and figured it was something Pa didn’t want to hear. "He was down to the Bucket of Blood and Sam, the bartender down there, said Joe had two beers then went home because there wasn’t anybody he knew in that night. He was home helping Hop Sing all day Saturday and on Sunday, we all went to Mayor Kinsey’s Open House. Way I figure it, Joe probably had about ninety dollars in his jeans. Why do you ask?"

            Roy leaned back in his chair. He ran the computations through his head quickly then nodded. "Figurin’ the gas mileage his Jeep probably gets and knowing how much spendin’ cash he had on him, I’d guess a radius of about eight hundred miles. If you figure the speed and the length of time he’s been gone, that’s an easy guess. Eight hundred miles. That’s how far he could get -or whoever took him and the Jeep could get, presuming they went together and didn’t use anybody else’s cash. That’s a hefty chunk of ground to cover. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m going to go extend that APB clear to the Canadian and Mexican borders."

            As he went to leave the room, he stopped beside his old friend and supporter and patted Ben’s arm. "We’ll find him. I promise. You’d best go home and wait. Chances are someone is gonna call and soon. I’ll send out some State boys and they’ll set up the tap on your lines."

            "But what about this?" Ben pointed at the email from the Citizens for the Repeal of Capital Punishment Laws.

            "Our information says that group’s in Atlanta, Georgia, Ben. That email was sent before Mandy was killed and Joe come up missing. Even though it’s a remote possibility, we’re checking into it. Like I said, we’ll find him. Go home, Ben. I’ll call you if something comes up."

            Once the sheriff was gone, Ben sat down in the chair in front of the desk. From behind him, he could hear his son shuffling his feet.

            "Did Roy tell you?" Adam asked softly.

            Ben didn’t turn around when he asked "Tell me what?"

            Adam cleared his throat and with just the sound of it, Ben could tell that what his son had to say was going to be unpleasant and he steeled himself.

            "First off, Mandy was pregnant. Three months or so along. Whoever killed her knew that because they . . . they sliced into her . . . and removed the fetus."

            Bile rose hot in Ben’s throat at the brutality he imagined happening to the young woman. He could hear Adam’s uneven breathing and knew he also felt the same.

            "And," the son continued, "not all of the blood found was Mandy’s. Some of it may have been Joe’s. The lab is testing it now."

            "Then Roy may be right. Why would this group in Georgia want to butcher–?"

            "Let’s get home, Pa. We aren’t finding any answers here."

            Outside the two men split up, Adam saying he needed to stop by his office before he went home. Seeing the stark concern on his father’s face, he smiled lopsidedly and promised him he would be home shortly.

Tuesday

4:45 P.M.

            Once again, Adam checked his speedometer then the flashing light in his rearview mirror. He muttered to himself that he wasn’t speeding and that the State Highway patrol was getting annoying. He pulled his car to the side of the road, careful to make sure he was on a solid shoulder. Rolling the window down, he waited for the trooper to make his appearance. When a full minute passed and no trooper had appeared, Adam unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the car.

            At first glance, he thought he recognized the policeman as Jimmy Redhawk Taylor, a full-blood Paiute he had gone to school with. "Afternoon, officer," Adam greeted him cordially since it never paid to fight with the boys on the tarmac. "There a problem?"

            Gruffly the police officer asked for Adam’s license and registration. As Adam reached into his hip pocket under his jacket, he half turned. Something struck him and as the world went dark on him, his single thought was that he was going to be late getting home.                         

            It was pushing ten o’clock that evening when Roy Coffee returned Ben’s frantic phone call. The fact that he did it in person was unsettling. As he stood on the front porch of the sprawling log home, he nodded. Yes, he knew Adam had come up missing now and that Ben was upset. That was why he had come out to the Ponderosa.

            With his hands bunched into fists planted firmly on his hips, Ben Cartwright roared. "My sons-two of them - are missing and all you can say is that you know it? What’s being done to find them?"

            "It’s like this, Ben. I’ve got something here I want to show you. Can we step inside?" Roy didn’t wait for an answer but pushed by Ben and into the house. He said hello to Hoss then went directly to the television set and dropped in a videotape.

            "Got this about an hour ago. Ben, I’m sorry but the investigation has been taken out of my hands. The state bureau of investigations will be handling it from here on out." Roy pressed the play key.

            The video was a grainy black and white and had come from the dash of a car. From the rotating light source somewhere above it, it was easy to deduce that it was a tape from a state patrol vehicle. Seen stopped in front of it was a low slung sports car. Neither Ben nor Hoss had to check the license plate for both recognized the rear of Adam’s Jaguar. As they watched the tape, a large man wearing a police uniform passed in front of the car, partially blocking the camera’s angle. Out from the Jag stepped a familiar figure: Adam Cartwright. There was something said but the sound was muffled. Adam turned and reached under his jacket but the rest of what he did was hidden behind the bulk of the officer. The police officer shouted something and went to pull his own service revolver but the sound of a single gunshot was clearly heard before he cleared it from the holster. The officer folded in two then dropped out of the camera’s range. Left standing was Adam Cartwright, a gun in his hand. Just as quick as a cat, he turned, got into his car and sped away.

            Roy pushed the stop button on the remote control. He looked at the two stunned men who had watched with him.

            "Jimmy Redhawk Taylor, eighteen year veteran of the Nevada State Police. Dead, single gunshot wound to the chest. Left a wife and three kids."

            "It can’t be," Hoss exclaimed, his face pinched in pain.

            "There’s more," Roy continued, his own voice thick. "Found Adam’s Jaguar in the parking lot of the Reno airport. There was a snub nose forty-five lying on the seat. One shot fired. I checked the registration on it myself. It’s Adam’s. Haven’t gotten the surveillance tape yet but there were two men who flew out to Miami late this evening. Airline manifest lists them as Adam Stoddard and J. D'Marginy. There's to be a short layover in Dallas. The Dallas police are going to meet the plane, Ben. Stoddard was Adam’s mother’s maiden name, wasn’t it,  Ben? And d'Marginy was Marie’s name before she married you as I recall."

            Ben nodded, unable to speak.

            "And Ben, we got Troy Silverstein out of bed. You know him, don’t you? President of the Nevada Union Bank? He did some checking for us. Seems late this afternoon, ‘bout an hour before that video was taken, someone who knew all the right passwords transferred a little over a million dollars to an off-shore account in the Caribbean from the account of Cartwright and Sons Construction. According to Troy, there’s only two men could do that, who would have all that information. One of them’s you, Ben. The other is Adam."

            Not trusting his legs to hold him any more, Ben sank into his chair. He accepted the small glass of brandy Hoss pressed on him and drank it down in a single gulp.

            "No," he whispered. "I can’t believe Adam would do something like this. Not for any reason!"

            "Did you transfer that money, Ben?" Roy queried softly, hoping that his friend had but knowing otherwise.

            "Of course not. Adam didn’t either! How were the plane tickets bought?"

            "Gal at the desk said cash, large bills. Said the man was tall, wore dark clothes and was rather handsome. She never saw the other passenger. Took it to be that this Adam Stoddard was running off with a woman. Like I said, haven’t seen the tapes from the airport yet. Have to get them cleared through the FAA and Homeland Security."       

            "Roy?" Hoss caught the lawman’s attention. "Doesn't this all seem a little too pat?"

            "The state boys are looking at it like this is being done by two fellas who ain’t got any idea how to go about coverin’ their tracks. If this were real criminals, things might not be so clear cut but your brothers got no idea how to go about gettin’ away, Hoss. The only thing I can see going for them is –"

            "They are innocent!" Ben roared, his hand slapping the arm of his chair. "You know it as well as I know it, Roy."

            "In here," the old lawman tapped his chest, "I know they are. But here," this time he put a finger to his head, "the evidence says different. Especially that tape of Adam shooting Taylor!"

            "Can’t you do something, Roy?" pleaded Ben, feeling as though the very fabric of his life was coming unraveled.

            "I’m doin’ all I can, Ben. I got to tell ya this, though. Outside in a bit, there’s gonna be men who are gonna move in here on ya. They’re gonna monitor every phone call, check every computer’s email, watch every move you make. It ain’t gonna be pleasant but don’t fight ‘em. That would only make it worse."

Day, unknown

Time, unknown

            Slowly, he let himself come back into the world of the living. His body first told his brain that it was cold and it hurt. The brain sent cautious messages out to the body and the information limped back: cold, laying face down on something not quite soft yet not quite hard and it hurt to breathe. Move some small body part, the brain commanded and the right foot responded, toes flexing then replied silently works but cold, damp feeling. Another message and a leg moved side to side with a minimum amount of complaining. Summoning willpower from its center, the brain commanded the eyes to open. Sluggish, squinting at the brightness found, they obeyed.

            Still not sure of his limits, Joe let his vision adjust to the light before he tried any further exploration. From what he could see, the room he was in was small, maybe no more than ten feet square. He was face down on a cot, his cheek scraping against a wool blanket covered pillow. Looking out over his hand there beside him, he could make out the edge of a square of white porcelain. From out of his fogged brain came the name: a sink, like a bathroom sink. He pulled his hand down and found a toilet there just beyond the sink.

            Pushing his hand against the hard mattress, Joe rolled to his side. A spasm shot through his chest and he closed his eyes and held his breath, willing it to disappear. It did and he took a shallow breath, experimenting. When no pain accompanied it, he heaved a sigh of relief. There was no broken rib about to send a splintered end through a lung. Cracked, perhaps, he thought, judging the pain against a similar sensation from a few years ago when he had taken a hard fall.

            He slipped his legs towards the edge of the bed and let them drop over it. Again, the spasm ripped into him but he was prepared for it. It washed over him and for that moment, he was warm, hot even. Levering himself up further, he was able to finally sit upright but with a price. His vision spun crazily, threatening to dump him back down onto the bed, or, worse yet, the floor. It made his stomach flip and flop about, hot acid rising to his throat, scalding and burning. By instinct only, he managed to get to the toilet before his stomach emptied itself.

            Again and again, his body revolted, dropping him to his knees as he held the cool edges of the toilet, resting his head on his crossed arms between bouts. When there was nothing left in his stomach, he silently prayed for the nausea to stop but it didn’t. His eyes pressed closed could not stop the kaleidoscope of disjointed colors, pictures, imagined faces and sounds that made his stomach hurl and pitch him about. He felt his hands losing their grip then the cement floor rushed up to meet him.

            Flat on the floor, he opened his eyes and the ceiling slowly stopped spinning. He looked around again, this time careful not to move his head overly much. The underneath side of the bunk showed him nothing, the plumbing under the sink much less. From this angle, he could see the door. It was closed, solid in appearance, without a knob, almost blending in with the wall it fit so close. The dawning realization came to Joe that everything in the room, from the walls to the blanket on the bed, was white. Not the sterile sort of white that he associated with a hospital but white all the same. Longing for some break in the pattern, he lifted his eyes and finally found it. In the upper corner of the room, high on the same wall as the door, there was a small camera, its dark lens like a tiny eye.

            Just before he dropped off into the void of unconsciousness, Joe thought the eye winked at him.

            When he awoke, he found himself back on the cot, the blanket now covering him. He nudged it around, seeking more warmth but it wasn’t enough. Remembering what had happened the time before, he remained flat, breathing shallowly, letting his other senses tell him what was in the room. Silence met his ears and the only smell came from the wool of the blanket there at his chin. The acid taste in his mouth and the fact that he could see light and feel the chill in the air was all that truly convinced him that he was alive.

            Tentatively, he cleared his throat, and that gave him courage. He shouted "Hey!" but there was no reply. He tried again. Again, only silence.

            "I know I am not alone," he hissed aloud, more to hear himself than to impart information to anyone listening. "Somebody put me back on the bed; somebody covered me up. Well, let’s see what happens this time." With that said, he shoved the blanket aside and sat up on the side of the bed. Instantly, he regretted the move since it made him dizzy and he was forced to flop back down.

            On the floor, across from the bed, was a tray. On it was a glass of milk - appropriately white, Joe thought sarcastically - and a sandwich. Trying to hold his head as still as possible, he slipped from the bed and used his foot to bring the tray to his hand. Sitting on the floor and leaning against the cot, he wolfed down the sandwich -cheese- and gulped the milk. Although it seemed to hit the bottom of his stomach like a lead weight then threatened to return like a hot-air balloon, Joe swallowed repeatedly and kept it in place.

            He looked up at the corner and the camera lens, smiled and gave whoever was watching a thumbs-up sign. For a moment, he thought how absolutely stupid it was then chuckled aloud. He had to stop when his side twinged warningly to him and he rubbed his hand over the spot. That made him think that perhaps he had better figure out just where he stood physically. A hand run carefully over the back of his head and neck encountered a knot on his head.

            "Figures. Matches the concussion, most likely."

            A peek inside his shirt showed him a spreading bruise down one side. "There’s the rib. No more than cracked but I better go easy on it."

            The blood on his hand gave him pause because, other than some split knuckles, he could find no other source of leaking blood, or at least what he presumed to be his in such quantity.

            "Looks like I gave as good as I got, for once. Wonder what the other guy feels like this morning. Wonder where the other guy is this morning! Hell, I’ll settle for knowing where I am . . . jail? Maybe? Pa’s gonna have a fit. Arrested for brawling. Oh, geeze louise."

            His hands rubbing down his legs came across nothing out of the ordinary and a glance at his naked toes only showed him why his feet were cold. Gingerly, he stood, using the cot to brace himself. While his vision swam again, this time it steadied after a few swirls and he was able to straighten up. Everything seemed to be working and he puffed out the breath he had been holding fearfully.

            He took the few necessary steps that put him at the sink. Twisting the handles brought water gushing into it, although the water was cold from both faucets. He gathered enough into his hands and splashed it on his face, letting it drip to his chest. With more, he doused the back of his neck. Looking into the lens, he smiled and winked as though teasing some young lady and stripped off his shirt, tossing it onto the bed. He continued splashing the water over his bare chest, feeling more and more alive with every cold handful. Finally deciding that he had given whoever was watching enough for one day, he dried off with his shirt then put it back on.

            "Hey, think you can at least give me a little heat?" he pestered the camera but, of course, got no response.

            He sat back on the cot, pulling his feet off the cold concrete floor and covering them with the blanket. Try as he might, his thoughts seemed to be scattering on him. He couldn’t concentrate, make his thoughts align themselves. With one exception: he had been drugged. As his body seemed to become weightless, he fell sideways, his eyes closing before his head touched the bed.

            He was not alone. He knew it because he could hear someone snoring. It wasn’t very loud but it was consistent, gentle and, in the back of his mind, familiar and therefore comforting. Subconsciously, his body adjusted its own rhythm to it and he found himself slipping back into sleep with its regularity. Joe pushed the comfort aside and forced his eyes open. He knew what he would find: the same bright light, the same white walls and same blanket, cot, sink and toilet and, most of all, the same eye watching him from its perch high in the corner. But his senses awoke and clamored, demanding, for the source of the new sound. When he found it, he wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time.

            Another cot had been brought into the room. It was against the opposite wall and closer to the door. With one exception, and that exception made Joe’s emotions roil identically to his stomach's as before, it was the same as his own: thin pillow and a white woolen blanket. But even as he listened to the soft snore coming from under the cover, he knew who was now sharing his stark cell. He didn’t have to lift the blanket and uncover his brother. As a child, afraid of the loneliness night often brought to him, Joe had sought his oldest brother. For years, he had associated that same steady breathing he heard now with being safe and protected. Now, he could only feel . . .                           

            The rhythm changed and Joe saw movement. Rising, he ignored the watching lens and sat on the narrow cot beside Adam. When the face appeared and the eyes fluttered open, he smiled ruefully.

            "Morning," he greeted softly. "Least ways I think it’s morning." He brushed his brother’s hands aside and sought for the same sort of damage done to him. Yes, there on the back of the dark head he found a lump but his hand came away with a track of blood. "Can you roll over?" Joe asked but then moved his brother anyway.

            There was something cold pressed to the back of his skull that made Adam Cartwright want to first holler, but the longer it stayed, the better it felt. Through slitted eyelids, he stared at the plain whiteness before him, knowing it was only a wall, and letting the sound of his brother’s voice wash over him. Inside his head, anvils had been set up and hammers were beating a mean cadence.                     

            When the cold left that aching place on the back of his head, Adam sat up, taking advantage of his brother’s arm to help him. He took steadying breaths and found that with a little persistence on his part, the hammers didn’t strike the anvils quite so often.

            "Yeah, you got a knot back there. Looks like whatever it was that hit you just broke the skin a little," Joe was muttering, but Adam was too busy trying to assess other damage. Except for an aching knee and a roughed up palm, his head seemed to be the only problem.

            "Are you all right? Where are we?" mumbled Adam, running a hand over his jaw, feeling the stubble, wishing for a razor.

            "To the first question, fine, I guess. A little bit of a headache. Less than what you got, I imagine. As for the second question, I got no idea," came Joe’s answers as he sat down beside his brother. "Was in hopes you knew."

            Adam shook his head and was immediately sorry that he had.

            "How’d you get here?" was his next question.

            "Same way you did, apparently. Knocked out cold." Joe pulled his feet up to the edge of the bed and off the cold floor and, bringing his knees to his chest, propped his chin on them. "Haven’t seen anyone. Haven’t heard anyone. Don’t know what time it is either."

            At the mention of time, Adam checked his wrist and saw with disgust that his watch was gone. He scowled.

            "Last thing I remember it was Tuesday evening. I was headed home. Cop stopped me." Adam rubbed his hand over the knot on his head again, as if making sure it was there. "The cops are looking for you so I hope by this time, they’re looking for me too."

            Joe grunted. "What are they looking for me for? I didn’t do anything." He frantically searched through his memory but it was confused, jumbled.

            "What do you remember last?" Adam asked, a strained note to his voice.

            "Mandy had ordered pizza. I went to the door to pay for it. That’s it," he explained yet something stayed right on the edge of his memory, like the words to a song once memorized but now half-forgotten.

            "You remember why you went to Mandy’s?"

            Curious, Joe looked at his brother in the sharply clear and unpleasant light. There seemed to be something lurking in Adam’s manner that spoke of pain but Joe couldn’t understand the reason behind it. He shrugged it off then, recalling Mandy’s happy face as she had shared her secret with him, smiled.

            "She, uh, she needed some help putting something together. Something important. Guess I can tell you but promise me that when she tells you, you’ll act surprised. Mandy’s-"

            Before Joe could finish, Adam interrupted. "Mandy’s dead, Joe."

            He felt as though he had been gut-punched. Startled by his brother’s revelation, he could say nothing but "No. She can’t be. Adam, she’s gonna have a baby."

            "No," Adam softened his voice. "I’m sorry, Joe, but she’s dead. She fought hard but . . . " He let his words drift off into the cold air. Beneath the comforting hand he placed on Joe’s shoulder, he could feel trembling. "And the police are looking for you in conjunction to her murder."

            "I didn’t hurt her! I –I wouldn’t, I couldn’t!" Joe jerked to his feet and began wildly pacing the small enclosure. It kept running like liquid fire through him that she couldn’t be dead. "For the first time in her life, she was going after something she wanted, something positive. My God, she was so happy."

            "Forgive me, but, Joe . . . ?"

            His thoughts jumbled and tangled, Joe only looked confused at Adam then shook his head, finally understanding the unasked question written on his face.

            "Any idea why she was killed?" Joe asked, leaning, bracing himself against the sink.

            "No. No idea except maybe she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Did you see anyone following you?"

            Joe snorted, then looked away, ashamed of the tears that threatened. "I was too busy making sure some brother of mine didn’t see me pull into her apartment complex and accuse me of sexually harassing her." He sounded righteously bitter.

            For a long while, the two simply sat and shared the silence. Finally, Adam rolled into the blanket and slept. Joe lay down but was unable to fall asleep as memories of a happier time and place washed over him, leaving him empty and void when they passed. When he ultimately dropped off, fractured memories assailed him, making true rest impossible. He awoke with a start, yearning for darkness now to hide the tears he had cried.

            A tray had appeared once again. This time, with two sandwiches and canned sodas. Making a rude gesture to the watching camera, Joe opened his drink. His brother looked at him as though the confinement was perhaps justified.

            Together, they compared what they knew. Joe shared that his first meal, delivered like this one, had been laced with a drug, a sedative most likely. Even though they looked suspiciously at their cheese sandwiches, hunger made them edible no matter what else they might contain. Adam, doing his best to keep his voice and tone noncommittal, laid out what he knew and what he suspect