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“God, Gretchen, stop lying to me. If you love me, give me the truth.”
“I’m not sorry for what happened to Max, whoever did it. That’s the truth.”
“That’s because you did,” I said dully. “Then James Yarnell. I remember. You checked your watch that night, after we had dinner, and you suddenly left. You needed to be there when he was locking up the gallery and walking to his car. It didn’t seem to matter to you, that night in Scottsdale, if you shot me along with him.”
“If that had been me…if it had been, I’m a good shot.”
“You have the perfect alibi for that night: dinner with your lover, the deputy.” My mouth felt as if it were coated with acid.
Gretchen said softly, “Frances was a twenty-four-year-old girl who never did anyone harm. Her only fault was to fall for an old man who was betrayed by his sons! And then their sons carried it on. They could have stopped it any time. Just let her out and let her be. They had the money to let it go away.”
“I guess they thought they were in too deep.”
“They were evil,” she said simply. “They had blood on their hands.”
“That may be,” I said. “But the punishment isn’t up to us.”
She faced me, her eyes fanatically bright. “How many more decades would we have to wait for your style of justice, David?”
“My style of justice?”
“How many?” she demanded. “You’re the historian. The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”
“And there’s no place for forgiveness?”
Her hands became fists and her voice rose an octave. “Tell my grandmother about forgiveness!”
“I can’t imagine she wanted her granddaughter to live the same nightmare that she did. Don’t you realize she stayed quiet all those years so your father would be safe, so the Yarnells would never even know about him?”
She sobbed softly. “Are you arresting me?”
I said nothing.
Then she kissed me, the most tender kiss of my life. It dawned on me that she could kill me, too, if she chose. Right that minute, I didn’t care. I heard her whisper, “My God, we could have been good together.”
I willed myself from her arms, willed myself out of the bed, willed myself out of the pain and desire to pass out. I grabbed the cane they had given me in the hospital and hobbled toward the door.
I stopped at the threshold of the bedroom. “How can you be sure you’re right?”
“You know I’m right.”
“I know I took an oath as a deputy sheriff. I know James Yarnell is under arrest, and we will prosecute him lawfully.”
“Well,” she said quietly. “You take your justice. I’ll take mine.”
Epilogue
Peralta didn’t come home that night. The next morning, I found out why.
Strangler Killed In Gunfight With Deputies, the headline said. Photos showed Lindsey—it was a mug of her in uniform that was at least two years old—and Patrick Blair, looking gorgeous. And the strange, round-faced man who followed me that night in the Ford Econoline van. “Alleged serial killer,” proclaimed type under his face. I looked at Lindsey’s face and was suddenly afraid to read more. I felt a deep stab in my stomach.
I made myself read:
A 38-year-old Mesa man about to be arrested as the notorious Harquahala Strangler shot it out with sheriff’s deputies Tuesday night. One deputy was wounded. The suspect, Mark Wayne Bennett, was fatally wounded.
The firefight took place at the suspect’s apartment on North Val Vista after sheriff’s detectives attempted to serve an arrest warrant. After the suspect opened fire, Det. Patrick Blair was wounded. He was listed in guarded condition at Desert Samaritan Hospital.
Chief Deputy Mike Peralta praised Deputy Lindsey F. Adams, for saving Blair’s life and preventing the suspect from escaping. Peralta said “substantial evidence” links Bennett to the slayings of 26 women in the Phoenix area. The alleged murderer had become known as the Harquahala Strangler because most of his victims were left in the Harquahala Desert west of the city.
