“Almost here, Michael. You’re going to make it. And guess what? You’re going to have to get used to being a hero. Better than being a fighter, right?”

  He laid his head back on the grass, closed his eyes, and smiled.

  I think the word he muttered was “Pray.” So I did.

  I STAYED WITH MICHAEL until the EMTs were able to strap him into the gurney and carry him down off the top of Mount Moriah.

  Detective Nolan had the crime scene photographer take pictures of the scene, including where Michael Jacob had been shot and where I’d dropped behind the headstone. Nolan planned to confirm my story with Michael once he came out of surgery and regained consciousness.

  “So tell me again about the papers.”

  With everyone standing around, I couldn’t tell Nolan everything. I wasn’t sure yet how or why Mully had been involved. So I spun the yarn just as he asked. “Like I said, I asked Father Bill where I might find Michael. He suggested I look at the church, which is where I went first, then I came here. When I climbed the hill, I heard voices. I recognized both men by voice, but it was still too dark to see them clearly. Michael warned me, so I dropped to the ground just as Sheriff Leonard fired off a shot at me. You should find the bullet in the hillside.”

  I showed him where I’d been standing and where the sheriff had been crouching over Michael before shooting at me. Nolan instructed one of the technicians to drag a line from where Leonard had been standing and where I’d seen the explosion of gunpowder, and to string it uphill. Within minutes they were inspecting a tight circle of dirt where they believed the bullet was lodged.

  When Nolan returned, he pressed for me to continue with my story for the seventh time. “I lay behind this headstone and pretended to be dead so I could hear what Leonard said.”

  My breath caught in my throat. For the first time, I noticed whose headstone had saved my life. Seth Bullock. The grave marker of the apparition I imagined seeing in the hotel the night I snuck out to see the Monsignor.

  “What?”

  “The headstone.”

  He looked down at the words I was reading. Seth Bullock, Pioneer. Wife Martha.

  “He was a lawman, the sheriff of this town.”

  “I know, I know. I just …”

  “So you dove here. And you had this throw down? Why didn’t you shoot him? Before he shot Michael?”

  “Because I wanted to know his plan, be a witness. I thought I had time to deal with Leonard before he shot Michael. I was wrong.”

  “So how’d Leonard get his face scratched?”

  “Well, we kind of grappled before I shot him.”

  Nolan raised an eyebrow. “And the papers?”

  “After I made sure he was dead, I noticed something sticking out of the back of his jeans. I pulled out the file and the papers spilled out.”

  Again with the raised eyebrow. Nolan wasn’t buying my story.

  “Does it matter?” I finally said.

  “It kind of does,” he said. “Leonard was our sheriff. We need to understand why he wanted Michael dead, why you’re speculating Sheriff Leonard is guilty somehow.”

  “I told you. Read the file, page 118, line eight.”

  “Which says what?”

  “I told you. I can’t quote you exactly. I need my computer.”

  “And I told you, it doesn’t matter what it says exactly. It matters what you found. Generally. So what does it generally say on page 118, line eight, of Father Bill’s report, and why do you have his report on your computer?”

  Agatha crested the top of the hill just as I was about to tell the truth about Mully.

  “Will you give me just a minute? Please?”

  Nolan glanced over his shoulder toward the direction I was looking, watching Agatha walk toward us.

  With Nolan temporarily distracted, I ducked off around the hill away from all the activity.

  I slipped the thumb drive out from my bra and popped it into the USB port of my cell phone. I pulled up O.C.’s report. I jumped to page 118 and read and reread the page several times.

  The entire case seemed to make more sense to me now. I tried to piece together what might have happened in my mind. Tried to figure out what would be such a powerful motivation to drive an otherwise lawful sheriff to unlawful acts of burglary.

  And there it was on page 118, line eight.

  A hundred years ago, when Father Darby was killed, Sheriff Leonard L. Leonard’s grandfather, Mort Leonard, had worked as a boy for his father, who stabled horses for the surface miners and raised mules for the underground miners. It was in Mort’s own testimony during the interrogation after Father Darby’s death that his father, Edward Leonard, was in fact the local leader of the Klan, holding the secret meetings of the community KKK members in a hidden bunker beneath the main stable.

  It didn’t matter that O.C. concluded the Leonards were cleared directly of any wrongdoing in the death investigation of Father Darby. What mattered was that Leonard’s ancestors were so predominantly and publicly involved in the KKK. That fact alone, no matter his beliefs of the Klan today, would likely cost Sheriff Leonard his job, a political seat he would certainly lose in the next election, if he was not forced to resign sooner.

  Motive for stealing files, yes. But for murder?

  I searched the Internet quickly to determine how long Sheriff Leonard had been running for the county position and saw that the first time he was elected was within a year of the date Monsignor Shannon said someone had stolen the Father Darby records from the rectory all those years ago. I laid my head back on the tree and closed my eyes. How could I prove this?

  I knew I couldn’t. But by the fact that Sheriff Leonard acted in desperation—forcing Michael to write the suicide note before shooting him, likely poisoning Monsignor Shannon, and probably burglarizing O.C.’s room this week and the rectory years ago to steal the files on the Father Darby investigation—the case would be far-fetched.

  Only a search of his home or office might reveal the secrets he’d been trying to hide.

  Or perhaps Michael’s testimony on what he’d seen that day.

  If nothing else, they’d have Sheriff Leonard guilty of shooting Michael in the chest and attempted murder of a federal agent. Me.

  I yanked the memory stick from my cell phone and meandered back to where Nolan was directing his investigation team. I didn’t like the expression on his face.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Sorry, Liv. I have to do this. Please understand. Especially considering that you weren’t officially working this case.”

  “Understand what?”

  Nolan motioned to a deputy to assist him. “Liv Bergen, you are under arrest for the murder of Leonard L. Leonard. You have the right to remain silent.”

  “What the hell are you doing, Harvey?” Agatha protested.

  I handed her the thumb drive.

  “His job,” I said, talking over Nolan’s reading of my Miranda rights and understanding that he had to do this to clear my name.

  “Boots, no,” Agatha said.

  I nodded. “Find Catherine. Make sure O.C. and Monsignor Shannon are doing well. And don’t tell Mom.”

  Agatha said nothing as the deputy slapped the cuffs on my hands, luckily in front of me, as we had a long, treacherous walk to the bottom of Boot Hill. She called after me, “Should I call Streeter?”

  “Please do,” I called back, smiling as I heard Agatha rip off a string of expletives so vivid, I was sure Nolan would have her arrested, too.

  As we neared the bottom, the deputy pulled up short, seeing the television crews and newspaper reporters gathered near the parking lot. The deputy stood in front of me, blocking my hands from view and unlocking the cuffs.

  “Promise not to tell, if you don’t,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  He walked beside me, stuffing the cuffs back in his pocket, and mumbled, “Don’t you dare run or I’ll shoot you.”

  I laughed. “I won’t.”

  I could see Mully hanging back from the crowd, wearing dark shades and shaking his head slowly. I knew what he was thinking. I tried to hold his gaze, to signal I was okay, but I couldn’t reach beyond the black sunglasses. I wasn’t even sure if he could see me watching him. I was afraid of what he might do. I didn’t want him punching Nolan or this thoughtful deputy, who’d given me my dignity. Like he’d leveled Mikey for tackling a princess. I’d work this out on my own. And I understood what Nolan was doing.

  A county sheriff was dead.

  Shot dead.

  And I was caught holding the smoking gun, telling a flimsy story that didn’t support the facts.

  I’d have to figure out how to be cleared without pointing a finger Mully’s way, if possible. The very fact that the sheriff’s deputy was leading me away should signal to Mully that I had done what he asked. Never mentioned he was even there. Hopefully, I could get all three of us cleared of any wrongdoing—Michael, Mully, and me—particularly as a favor to Mully for saving my life. Yet, I knew what plagued me was my oath to uphold the law and I really had no doubt I’d be telling Nolan everything I knew the second we were alone in the interrogation room.

  Even if it meant being honest about Mully.

  The flashes from the photographers’ cameras and the microphones that were shoved at me, the shouts lobbied my way, indicated I’d made a big mistake instructing Agatha not to tell Mom. I’d rather she hear what was happening from Agatha than someone calling her later, after seeing me being arrested on the news.

  I thought about what I’d say if I were calling her. Then I thought about whose number I’d dial with my one phone call.

  The deputy invited me to sit up front with him, another generous gesture. When we were in the quiet of the enclosed sheriff’s deputy car, I handed him the keys to the Chevy and told him how I’d borrowed the truck from one of his coworkers, asking if he’d be willing to get the vehicle back to the county courthouse parking lot for me.

  The deputy offered me a smile and told me to drive it back myself, that he’d follow me.

  As I said, only in South Dakota.

  Within a few minutes, we were back at the jail and I parked the pickup in the same stall I’d found it in this morning, hoping the young man who’d lent it to me was still on shift. He wasn’t. So I handed the truck keys to the deputy who began processing me for incarceration.

  I was happy to find myself in a middle cell of five cells, across from Anna Murphy, two down on my left, and across from Eunice Jacob, two down on my right. Eunice was snoring.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Anna Murphy cackled.

  “And I never did get to eat. Wish I could have had a Reuben last night.”

  “About that,” she said. “Eunice tells me you made up the part about her saying I’d eaten all the sauerkraut. You lied.”

  “I did.” I had to be careful here. “And I’m glad I got you and Eunice talking or we wouldn’t have made it in time.”

  “In time for what?” I heard Eunice croak, although I didn’t see her get off her bunk.

  “Your grandson’s been shot. But he’s alive. I got there just in time.”

  “Who shot Michael?” Eunice said, popping to her feet and hobbling to the bars.

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me a few things,” I bargained.

  “Like what?”

  “Which one of you two broke into Father Bill’s home, rifled through his stuff?”

  “Neither of us,” they both said at once.

  “Convince me that you hadn’t already planned that answer.”

  “Why would we?” Eunice said.

  “We didn’t do it,” Anna said.

  “Then, Anna, why did you lie about having breakfast with Benji the morning Monsignor Shannon was robbed?”

  “Because I was having breakfast with Eunice,” Anna said. “We had to get our stories straight. About Father Bill.”

  “And what was the story?”

  “I was going to say I was shopping in Rapid with Mikey,” Eunice said.

  “And I was going to say I was home watching reruns of the Wheel,” Anna said.

  “But you were together, right?”

  The jailing area went quiet for a minute. None of us could hear what was happening on the other side of the soundproof door, but I suspected the sheriff’s department could hear us, as the cells were likely bugged.

  “We had agreed to meet in the parking lot behind Mustang Sally’s so we could talk, decide what to do about Benji and Beverly’s wedding,” Eunice said.

  “So we sat in the backseat of my Impala that I’d backed into a slot in the back row. So we could see out and no one could see us talking,” Anna continued.

  “And then we saw Father Bill.”

  “Walking straight for us.”

  “Down the main level of the parking garage.”

  “It was like God had delivered us the answer.”

  “So right then Anna says, ‘What if we knock him out so he can’t officiate?’”

  “And Eunice says, ‘I can whack him with my cane.’”

  “And Anna says, ‘Wait until he walks past my car and then go after him.’”

  “And then Eunice says, ‘I’ll get out now and hide behind the car until he walks past.’”

  “And then I did. I got out, worked my way to the front of the car, and stood still. Father Bill didn’t even notice me. He had his head down, sending some message or something on his cell phone. So when he walked by, I whacked him on the top of the head.”

  “He went down like a pot of mutton stew,” Anna said.

  “And we drove off,” Eunice said.

  “So which one of you beat his face?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “Neither of us,” Anna said.

  “Who did?” Both women grew quiet. “Michael?”

  “Who shot Michael?” Eunice demanded.

  “Sheriff Leonard,” I answered.

  “Son of a bitch,” Eunice sputtered. “How bad?”

  “He’ll live. Shot him in the chest, but didn’t hit any major organs, if I had to guess.”

  “I hate that cocky SOB,” Anna said. “You know, we ought to give him a good ass chewing.”

  “Too late. He’s dead,” I said, hoping to keep the women talking.

  “What?” Anna scoffed.

  “No way,” Eunice said.

  “Why do you think they threw me, a federal agent, in jail?”

  “You killed him?” Eunice gasped.

  “I was trying to save Michael,” I said honestly.

  “You killed Sheriff Leonard? How?” Anna asked.

  “I shot him,” I said.

  “And they arrested you?” Anna asked.

  “Until they are satisfied I shot him in self-defense and in defending Michael.”

  The cell area went quiet again.

  “I know you clobbered Father Bill, Eunice. And that you were an accomplice, Anna. But who beat up on Father Bill?”

  Neither woman said a word.

  I broke the silence. “And you two sure must have enjoyed that wonderful corned beef and sauerkraut dinner last night. Made me miss my mother’s home cooking. And my family.”

  “And now look at you,” Anna said. “You’re nothing but a jailbird.”

  “A hungry jailbird,” I said, slumping down on the hard cot.

  The two women laughed.

  Finally, Eunice said, “Because you saved my Michael’s life, I will tell you. But you can’t let it be known that I shared the secret with you. And you can’t use it against us.”

  THE CLANG OF THE cell door opening woke me up. I had actually managed to fall asleep.

  “You’re free to go,” Nolan called.

  At first, I wished he’d leave me alone, let me sleep. I hadn’t gotten much shut-eye in the last two nights and my furious pace had finally caught up with me.

  “Bergen, let’s go!” he shouted.

  I mumbled something not so nice, pushed myself up off the cot, and followed Nolan out.

  “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure,” I called to Anna and Eunice.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Eunice said.

  “And mine,” Anna said as I walked past her cell.

  Nolan frowned, opening the heavy door for me to go through. Once closed, he asked, “You got a little chummy in there, did you?”

  “We did,” I said. “And I learned something.”

  I followed him down to his office and sat across the desk from him. “Want something to drink?”

  “To eat,” I said.

  He tossed me a wrapped ham salad sandwich.

  “Agatha told me that was your favorite,” he said.

  “Where is she?”

  “In Rapid City. Checking on Monsignor Shannon.” He opened his own sandwich. “A peace offering.”

  “I knew what you were doing. Let me guess. You’re now acting sheriff. And you had to arrest me to keep up appearances. Of fairness and impartiality, even though everyone knows you’re dating my sister.”

  “You think me that shallow?” he asked, eyeing me over his sandwich.

  I took another bite and studied him.

  “It was your story. I don’t believe it. I think you’re lying. You didn’t shoot Sheriff Leonard. Someone else did.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because you’re not the kind of person who would carry a throw down.”

  I thought about the pistol with the serial numbers shaved off. He was right. Many in law enforcement carried illegal guns that couldn’t be traced back to them, but I wasn’t one of them. In fact, no one I knew was that kind of LEO. Except, perhaps, Sheriff Leonard. I suspect he owned one or two that he probably lifted from the evidence room. I decided to tell him the truth. And started by telling him that it was Mully who killed the sheriff with the throw down.

  “So why did you let me go?” I said.

  “Because Michael is out of surgery and he corroborated your story. He said Sheriff Leonard planned to pin everything on him, including your death. So your self-defense plea will hold up.” He studied me as I ate. “The details of what happened after Sheriff Leonard shot Michael were too fuzzy for him to recall. Which means we have to rely on your story. There’s so much more that you’re not telling me. And I think it’s about time you come clean.”

 

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