Key Witness Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication Page

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  PROLOGUE

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY SANDRA BOLTON

  A Cipher in the Sand

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Sandra Bolton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477828519

  ISBN-10: 1477828516

  Cover design by Salamander Hill Design Inc.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014955116

  For my mother, who taught me to love books and reading

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

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  8

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.

  —Lao-tzu

  PROLOGUE

  Abe Freeman lay on his back, staring at water-spot patterns on the gray ceiling. He had been arrested and placed in the holding tank of the Huerfano Community Police Substation. The reek of piss and vomit permeated the cell he shared with three other inmates being held on drunk and disorderly charges. His head throbbed from fatigue and confusion brought on by hours of interrogation by the Navajo policewoman and New Mexico State cop. He tried without success to block the snores and grunts of the other prisoners.

  According to the law enforcement officers, two young boys playing in an arroyo at Clayton Lake State Park had stumbled across the bloodstained body of Easy Jackson. His throat had been slit from ear to ear. Abe’s newly purchased switchblade was discovered a few feet from the corpse.

  Abe rolled on his side, facing the wall. How could he have been so stupid as to leave his knife behind? Before Sharon’s death he had been a careful man. He covered his eyes with his forearm, not wanting to think, not wanting to live.

  1

  Six months earlier, when Abe Freeman placed the pillow over her face Sharon didn’t resist—a brief struggle at the last moment, then nothing. He pressed down tightly to be sure, pulled the pillow away, closed her eyes, and called the attending physician. Abe sat by the body until the ambulance arrived. Cause of death: respiratory failure due to advanced stages of cancer. Emergency medical techs covered the body and wheeled it out. Alone, Abe shouted his rage to God and the world and beat his fists against the wall. Spent and exhausted, he slid to the floor and wept. Sharon’s dog, Patch, crept from his hiding place to lay his head across Abe’s lap.

  After Sharon’s death, during the brutal midwinter of 1986, nothing could keep Abe in New Jersey—not the music and not his family. They had washed their hands of him long ago. He picked up his last paycheck, hocked the piano, and spent the money on a used pickup shell and camping equipment at an army surplus store. At the last moment, he bought the knife. It folded into a neat bone handle but opened quickly into a sharp five-inch blade when he pressed a small lever. Could be useful, Abe had thought.

  As soon as the funeral ended, he threw a mattress into the bed of his truck and loaded the dog, some food for both of them, and the rest of his gear. There wasn’t much. His stash of marijuana fit nicely into the battery compartment of a flashlight. Abe pushed the apartment key under the door and scraped ice off the truck’s windshield. After the fifth pump on the accelerator the old Toyota grumbled to a start. It crept through the morning rush and the slushy gray streets of Atlantic City until reaching the expressway, then gained speed. If anyone had asked where he was going, his answer might have been, “Pacific Ocean and whatever’s between here and there.” He only knew he had to get away.

  Once on his journey, Abe stuck to back roads, driving long into the day. He passed the time trying to block the memory of Sharon’s death, a vision that haunted every waking moment, by singing along with the radio to the popular songs of the ’80s. When cash ran low he stopped in one of the small towns, looked for a campground, park, or some cheap motel, and any kind of temporary work. Occasionally he scored a gig playing the piano at a VFW hall or local dive, but mostly he did construction or field work for low wages. He never complained on one condition: his dog could stay with him. Abe spent two or three weeks in one place, then moved on.

  The meandering route took him through the heartland. Winter changed to spring, then summer. Grimy cities gave way to farms—orchards and fields of corn and wheat—the land opening up to him like a voluptuous woman, undulating and inviting. The farther west Abe went, the more freedom he felt. He still thought of Sharon every night before drifting off to sleep. They had talked of marriage, a baby somewhere in the future. Sharon could quit singing in clubs and Abe would get a full-time job, a day job, maybe teaching music in one of the local schools. They would be a family. That all ended when cancer invaded and swept through her body like a raging storm, obliterating all their hopes and dreams of a future life together. “If you love me, don’t let me suffer any more, baby. I want you to let me go. Help me, please,” she had begged.

  “We’re not going any farther tonight, boy,” Abe said to the mixed-breed dog riding shotgun. For nine hours, thunderstorms, choreographed by capricious winds, had danced around them. Hail and rain chased the man and his dog through southern Kansas and the flat, cholla-studded plains of the Texas/Oklahoma Panhandle. When they finally crossed into Clayton, New Mexico, on a tempestuous August evening, both were dog-tired. The small cattle town claimed a nearby state park where he could set up camp for the night.

  Patch cocked his head. He was missing half a hind leg and, with black markings covering the right side of his face, he appeared to be missing an eye as well. The little mutt made futile motions wit
h the stump of his right hind leg at an itch he couldn’t scratch, then gave up and settled back down on the seat. Abe scratched the dog behind the ears. “Show a little enthusiasm, Patch. We’re in the ‘Land of Enchantment,’ a thousand miles of bad roads behind us.”

  After cruising the main street, Abe pulled the truck into a parking space in front of the Plato Grande Diner and stepped through the threshold into a dimly lit room that smelled spicy and well used. The diners turned their heads and watched him as he self-consciously pulled on the bill of his New York Yankees ball cap and ambled to a seat at a window booth. His Pink Floyd T-shirt, dirty sneakers, and shoulder-length hair held their attention for five seconds—then, their curiosity seemingly satisfied, the patrons went back to their meals and muffled talk of weather, cattle, and the price of hay.

  Abe gazed out the window. From his vantage point he could see his truck and Patch, and in the background the tallest structure in town—a grain elevator, insular and commanding, hovering by the railroad tracks.

  His reverie was interrupted by a woman with the same dimensions as his apartment-size refrigerator back in Jersey. She thrust a menu and a glass of water at him with one hand and held a coffeepot in the other. Short Brillo-Pad hair framed a raisin face. She had a dirty apron tied around her ample middle. “Coffee, hon?”

  “That’d be great, and bring me the chicken enchilada plate.”

  “It’ll be right up.” The woman did a little more scratching on her pad, tore off a page, and slapped it on the table, then stared straight into his face. “You know, you got the purtiest blue eyes. They remind me exactly of Jesus’s,” she said, turning her own pale peepers toward a large velvet painting of a crucified Jesus with eyes the color of cornflowers.

  Jesus Christ, he thought, wondering what the waitress would say if she knew she was talking to a Jewish guy from New Jersey. Better yet, wouldn’t his mother flip out to hear him described in such a way? It gave him a little pleasure to think so. Just the same, Abe felt out of place—a city slicker, a Jew amid all that chambray, denim, and leather. He glanced out the window and saw Patch looking mournfully back. The dog was hungry. He’d hurry and get to the campground.

  While he absently stared through the dirty glass, he became dimly aware of a black sedan with tinted windows and Kansas plates. Two men stepped out and entered the restaurant. Shortly after their arrival, a motorcycle roared down the main street, made a U-turn, and rolled into an empty parking spot. A couple clad in matching black leather jackets and leggings pulled off their helmets and walked into the diner.

  Abe forgot the newcomers when the waitress placed a plate the size of a hubcap, filled with something swimming in a sea of red and green, in front of him. He couldn’t identify anything, but it smelled delicious. Abe dug in, savoring the rich chili-and-cheese combo. He cleaned his plate, wiping up the last of the sauce with a tortilla, and looked at the bill, surprised at how cheap it was. Watching his cash, Abe rarely ate out. He left a tip on the table, then stood in line behind a couple of cowboys at the register.

  “Howdy.” One of the men, tall and angular with prominent cheekbones and deep creases around his eyes, touched his hat in greeting.

  “How ya doing?”

  “That yer truck with the dog, Jersey plates?” the cowboy asked, rubbing his chin. “If it is, yer a helluva long ways from home.”

  “Yeah, that’s me, my dog. I’m looking for the campground. Gonna spend the night and head on out in the morning.” They both moved up to the next spot in line. “Do you know the easiest way to get to the state park?”

  “Couldn’t be easier. Only one way. Follow 64 till you hit 370. Take that road twelve miles north.”

  “Thanks. Think we’ll get more rain?”

  The cowboy laughed. “Hell, yes. It’s monsoon season, sonny.”

  Finding Clayton Lake State Park proved as easy as the cowboy said. The near-empty park offered an isolated space with a covered table near the lake. The sky had partially cleared, exposing a three-quarter moon that illuminated a trail near their site. Abe followed it with Patch for a while as it hugged the lake, but feeling the tiredness in his body, he turned around as soon as it came close to another campsite. “Nearly bedtime, Patch.”

  Abe gathered some dry branches and made a campfire. Sitting alone, warmed by the fire’s heat, he felt like smoking a bud. He fetched the flashlight with his stash and rolled a joint. He had been careful, saving his dwindling bag for special times and isolated areas like this, rationing it out, thinking he might have to give it up someday. After two hits he felt a pleasant buzz. Wanting some music, Abe pulled the harmonica out of his pack, sat on a boulder, and played an improvised blues tune.

  He began to relax, when Patch let out a low growl, then a sharp series of barks. Abe snuffed the reefer right before a lone figure appeared on the path.

  “Quiet, Patch.”

  “Hey, dude. I heard the music. D’ya mind if I hang out? Good to have someone to talk to.” Without waiting for an answer he sat down on a log near the fire, rubbed his hands over the blaze, and sniffed the air. “Smells like some good skunk, man. I ain’t been smoking nothing but ditch weed for so long I forget what real wacky terbacky tastes like.”

  The guy looked to be Abe’s height, but skinny, with a four-days’ growth of beard on a pinched, narrow face. He wore dirty cutoffs and boots. A backward ball cap partially covered stringy, light-brown hair. Abe noticed a tattoo encircling the right arm near the elbow, hard to make out in the dim light. The intruder appeared jumpy and kept looking over his shoulder as if he expected someone, his eyes shifting from left to right.

  “Name’s Joe, Joe Jackson, but everyone calls me Easy.”

  “Well, Easy, I’m getting ready to turn in. Got a long day tomorrow,” Abe said, without giving his name.

  “Yeah, sure, I dig it,” said Jackson, not showing any inclination to leave. “Look, man. I caught a whiff of your giggle weed when I came up the path. Don’t let me stop you none, but I wouldn’t mind getting a hit myself.” He paused to scratch his chin. “Or you could sell me a nickel’s worth,” he added on a hopeful note. “I only got a few bucks now, but it won’t be long till I hit the big time. You might say I got ahold of my ‘key to my happiness.’” He chortled, spewing the stench of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes.

  “I don’t sell, and I don’t have much left.” But he thought, What the hell. He was starting to feel good when this guy showed up. He reached behind the boulder until he found what he was looking for. “Guess I can afford a couple hits. Name’s Abe. Hope you’re not working for the law.”

  “Are you shitting me? I stay as far away from those assholes as I can.”

  When he finished relighting the joint, Abe took a toke, filled his lungs, and passed it to Jackson.

  Joe Jackson inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and held it as long as he could before exhaling two dragon puffs through his nostrils. “Hail Mary Jane. This is some kind weed you’re smokin’, dude.” He pulled a half pint of Jim Beam from a back pocket, took a swig, and offered Abe a drink.

  “No thanks, I’m strictly a beer man.”

  While they finished the joint the two men made small talk, touching on where they were headed and where they had been. Abe never felt at ease around people, but the weed soothed his nerves. He stood, stretched, and stirred the fire. The night air had chilled, and since they were upwind of the feedlots, the air smelled fresh, scented with unfamiliar plant life. Lake water glimmered in the moonshine, smooth as a satin sheet, broken only by an occasional fish splash. Patch hop-walked over to Abe, tail wagging, and received a pat on the head and a scratch on the belly, then curled into a hairy ball near Abe’s feet.

  “Now where in sweet Jesus did you get that ugly three-legged dog?” Jackson looked at Patch as if the dog had leprosy, slurring his words from the effects of the whiskey and marijuana.

  “My girlfriend found him.” Sharon had spotted the pup lying on the side of the street, his mangled leg attached by a singl
e tendon. “We were coming home from a late gig when she saw him. Made me stop the car while she got out and wrapped her jacket around his bloody body. He looked dead, but she said no. We took him home, then the next morning to a vet. Sharon treated him like a baby, nursed him back to health, and now he gets around as good as any four-legged dog.”

  “So, where’s the girlfriend? Guess you ended up with the dog and the girlfriend split. Women.” He grinned.

  Abe didn’t respond. He’d had enough of Joe Jackson and wished the guy would leave. He took his knife out, picked up a piece of firewood, and started whittling. After a few minutes, he turned to Jackson. “Look, I’m ready to crash. It’s been a long day, and like I mentioned, I have an early wake up tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay. But listen, man, since we’re both headed in the same direction how ’bout a lift. I ain’t got no wheels and I need to get to Bisbee, Arizona. Got a buddy out there with a place we can stay as long as you like. I’ll kick in for gas. What d’ya say?”

  “I don’t know,” Abe hemmed. He knew for sure he didn’t want this guy traveling with him. Abe was a loner. “No offense, but I’m not going to Bisbee, and I like to travel alone. I don’t know where I might stop along the way or for how long. I’d help you out, but . . .”

  “Well, let me catch a ride with you as far as you’re going tomorrow, okay. You won’t even know I’m there. I’ll sleep the whole way,” Jackson persisted. He craned his neck, looking nervously back along the trail. “I oughta get goin’. I’ll come by early.”

  From the glow of the fire Abe caught the outline of Jackson’s tattoo—a large spiderweb covering the right elbow. He noticed the guy nearly jumped out of his skin with every night sound. Abe didn’t try to stifle his yawn. “I’m hitting the sack now. See ya.”

  “Okay, man. Catch ya later, tomorrow morning.” Before he stood to leave, Jackson tilted his head back and took a long drink of whiskey, toppled backward off the log, and banged his head on a boulder. “Son of a bitch.” He rubbed his bump and stumbled to his feet. Still clutching the bottle, Easy Jackson staggered away and disappeared down the path toward the main campground.