No Sanctuary. Helen R. Myers

freedom, but not like this. Never at the cost of a dear memory, someone she’d respected and trusted. Glenn hadn’t just shared everything he knew about working with metal, he stuck around through the bad times when others quit due to one too many late paychecks. That was why she’d made him a partner, and why she’d called him a friend. What could she do to disprove these filthy lies? Nothing here. She had to temper her outrage and find the real answers outside.

      “This Catfish guy,” she said, her throat aching, “he’s in custody on a commuted sentence? I can talk to him?”

      “I told you, he was afraid that what he knew about Basque could be his death warrant if he went back to Huntsville, so he gave authorities various other tidbits that helped on several arrests and earned him a walk.”

      She couldn’t deny the validity of that. In prison, what you knew could get you in as much trouble as speculating about what wasn’t any of your business and plenty of inmates lived in dread of returning to pay for their secrets.

      “I don’t know, it still sounds as though he got the best of you guys. How do you know he didn’t?”

      “We have the confirmation of a detective in Vice, one Nick Martel, who acknowledged he saw Tarpley and Basque in the exact booth at the all-night restaurant Tarpley mentioned when he described making Basque’s payoff.”

      The news sucked the air out of the room until Bay felt her lungs burning. A cop…it was one thing to reject the word of a career crook and liar looking for any angle to gain a deal on his sentence, quite another to refute a cop. Sure, guys who carried badges and took oaths lied—naive she wasn’t. It would be a first for one to help someone in her kind of trouble, though.

      “Would Martel talk to me?” she asked.

      “To what end? He didn’t know English. He just saw what he saw.”

      “Then what about Tarpley? Did they ask him who hired him to make the payoff?”

      Gessler shook his head. “All of his leads dead-end because no names were used and payment was made at arranged drop-off sites for exactly those reasons.”

      Bay could see she would get little from the man and had to allow that maybe that’s why he was sent. It could be that, like Tarpley, he was simply part of the conduit. For the moment it would be wise to let him believe he’d performed his role expertly. But Bay had known Glenn English. He may have cut a corner or two on projects in his time; however, his conscience always reminded him where and when, especially after becoming engaged to Holly Kirkland. And she was active in her church. The couple had been planning a modest wedding to save money for a house. It was inconceivable that he would have jeopardized her trust.

      What to do…? So-called justice had already cost her six years of her life. If it took another big blunder to set things right, why not accept that as a gift? Sure as hell, she couldn’t do Glenn’s memory any good here. She also needed to get out for her sanity’s sake.

      “So what’s next?” she asked, aware of a slight trembling in her legs. With her free hand she gripped her left thigh to control it.

      “Sit tight for the formal paperwork to come through. You should be out by the end of the month, your record expunged.”

      Incredulous, she was slow to find her voice. “That fast?”

      “I told you, Mrs. Ridgeway has been working on this for some time.”

      Free…and not just paroled, the sentence overturned. It was too much to take in. The only thing that saved her was the weight of her guilt. Glenn still wasn’t coming back. Her friend died because she hadn’t locked a door, wasn’t more conscious of what had been going on with him…something.

      “Just don’t go doing something stupid like committing another murder before your release date,” Gessler said, breaking into her thoughts. “Mrs. Ridgeway doesn’t appreciate people who undermine her efforts.”

      Bay had to wait until the throbbing behind her eyeballs eased. “I didn’t do the first one.”

      As Lyle Gessler hung up the phone, she could almost hear his mind cranking away. He was doing his job. She’d gotten the same message from what’s his name, that detective who first questioned her that awful night. Despite his admitting to her that he’d believed something was fishy, he hadn’t fought too hard, either, when the D.A. twisted his words into what proved the prosecution’s strongest incriminating testimony. It was a miracle she hadn’t gotten the death penalty.

      As the attorney collected his things, Bay knocked on the window. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

      Gessler barely acknowledged her, but then Bay wasn’t really talking to him. She knew who deserved her thanks and she would voice them in person as soon as possible.

      2

      Tyler, Texas

      Thursday, May 31, 2001

      Things had changed. Nestled in the luxurious dove-gray leather of Madeleine Ridgeway’s white Lincoln Town Car sent to bring her home, Bay struggled to recognize landmarks as she was chauffeured around Tyler’s Loop. If it hadn’t been for the road signs, she would have sworn she wasn’t even on 323. Gone were the woods interspersed with stretches of pasture that had first given the East Texas community its charming rural appeal years ago. In their place was row after row of shopping strips, large chain stores and enough fast-food joints to keep the stomach bulging and the wallet starved. As for traffic, Bay had seen less congestion this morning as they’d passed under I-35 by Waco—the current main expressway connecting Mexico to the heartland of the U.S.A. It explained the increase of apartments, though. With everyone shopping so much, who had the money for a mortgage?

      As her hymn-humming driver Elvin Capps wove his way between slower vehicles—most of them SUVs or pickups and all freshly washed—she dealt with a dizzying mixture of elation and alienation. “Is there a plan for street expansion or another loop?” she asked once the car stopped for yet another red light.

      Darkly lashed hazel eyes met hers in the rearview mirror and crinkled at their corners. “My, yes. There’s always a plan. There’s a plan to adjust the latest plan, and a plan to oust the people wanting to stick with the original plan. In the meantime the traffic gets worse, accidents more frequent, insurance rates skyrocket and—” He punctuated his opinion with a shrug and sheepish smile. “I’m no expert, ask Mrs. Ridgeway. Next to her church commitments, improving the roads is her biggest interest.”

      Then no doubt something would get done. Bay believed if Madeleine Ridgeway could get her out from under a murder conviction, unraveling the political and economic bird’s nest delaying a new multimillion dollar road system should be no problem.

      The congestion didn’t ease up once Elvin turned south on Broadway. Before they cleared the second traffic light, she witnessed several near collisions…and the city stretched onward.

      “Good grief!” Torn between a laugh and shout of warning as another impatient driver cut in front of them, she gripped the back of the front seat.

      “Don’t fret none,” Elvin drawled, stopping before the intersection that featured one of the Ridgeways’ gourmet grocery stores. “You’re in good hands. Jesus watches over this car.”

      As he went back to humming the latest gospel tune playing on the radio, Bay reconsidered his earlier advice that she fasten her seat belt. Back in Waco, she’d rejected the idea as too close a reminder of driving shackled in the back of a patrol car. To avoid it now she averted her eyes from the traffic to the growing city’s infrastructure.

      Discount department store, super hardware store, super furniture store…American corporations were making a killing on cheap imports. Bay wondered…did she have a future in this kind of economical environment? Why would anyone pay premium prices for her one-of-a-kind creations when they could get slapped-together facsimiles for a fraction of the cost? Of course, the dream of having her own business again, let alone focusing on her sculpture was just