Prologue
Helen Gingrass took her dying patient’s hand in hers. Stuart Ramsey was about the same age as her son, which made his imminent demise from stage four cancer difficult to bear.
“I need the chaplain.” Stuart’s voice was raspy. He stared up at her with eyes that weren’t quite focused. “I need to confess my sins.”
“The chaplain is on his way.” Helen offered a reassuring smile. As a nurse for forty years, she’d heard a few confessions in her time. Mostly about infidelity.
“He needs to hurry.” Stuart’s eyes slid closed, then popped open again. “I don’t have much time. I can’t die with this crime on my conscience.”
Crime? Helen frowned. That was a first. “He’s with another patient. He’ll be here as soon as he can get away.”
“I need to confess!” Stuart’s voice held urgency. His fingers tightened on hers, and he let out a hacking cough. “I sabotaged a plane six years ago. I caused the deaths of three people. Only I didn’t know there would be three people.”
She was having trouble following his confession. “You didn’t intend to kill anyone, right?”
He grimaced. “I was paid to kill the pilot. That’s all. I took care of the plane, I used to be a mechanic, and I took care of the plane.” He swallowed hard. “But I didn’t know there would be two other people on board.” His breathing grew agitated. “I didn’t know!”
“Easy, Stuart, try to relax.” Helen did her best to reassure him, despite the shocking statement he’d just made. He’d purposefully sabotaged a plane to kill the pilot! She needed to call the police. Maybe even the FBI.
“I didn’t know the pilot had a son. Dominic Lakeland. I ruined so many lives.” He lifted his tortured gaze to hers. “I need . . . God to forgive me . . .” His voice trailed off. Then he let out another wet cough as his eyes closed. Helen frowned. She wasn’t a chaplain, so she wasn’t sure that simply confessing his sins was good enough.
“Do you regret what you did? Do you repent your sins?” She wished the chaplain would hurry up and get there. Despite working hospice for the past few years, she wasn’t accustomed to taking deathbed confessions of this magnitude. And she had no idea how to guide this man spiritually. In her mind, murder was a pretty big sin.
“Yes. I needed the money . . . but I know that’s not an excuse.” He abruptly pulled away to rummage in the pocket of his hoodie. In hospice, patients could wear whatever made them comfortable. He pulled out something that was small and round. “Take this.” He pushed it into her hand. “I don’t have any family, and it’s all I have left. Take it.”
“Oh, I can’t.” Nurses weren’t allowed to take money or gifts from their patients. That was against their code of ethics.
“Please, take it. Worth . . .” His voice trailed off as his breath rattled in his throat. His eyes closed.
Then he stopped breathing altogether. His hand went limp, and his head lolled to the side.
Helen pulled free, staring down at the coin he’d given her. It didn’t look real; it certainly wasn’t any currency she recognized. It was gold in color and had the picture of a man’s face on the front. Rearranging her bifocals on her nose, she could make out the words South Africa along the side. Was this a South African rand? Maybe Stuart had meant to say it was worthless. If it was worthless, it wouldn’t be against the rules to take it.
Still, Helen felt uneasy as she pocketed the coin. She’d have to take it somewhere to be appraised. If it was worth money, she could take the funds and donate them to the hospice center. Satisfied with that approach, she stepped back from the bedside and made a note of the time of death.
With that task finished, she decided to call the police. And this Dominic Lakeland whose father was killed. Stuart had confessed to a crime.
Everyone, especially the man’s son, needed to know the truth.
1
Dominic Lakeland slowed his speed as he caught sight of the Redwood Motel, the place Kendra Sullivan had suggested he stay while in Greybull. The recent news he’d learned about his father’s plane crash had circled around in his brain during the long drive from Billings, Montana. What should have been a two-hour ride had turned out to be three and a half, thanks to the recent snowfall. Not only had it caused traffic to slow to a crawl, but he’d had to get out and help a stranded mother of two who’d gotten herself stuck in a high snowbank along the side of the road.
Dom wanted nothing more than to get out and stretch his legs. Even driving his large Ford truck, his six-foot-seven-inch frame had made him feel like a pretzel behind the wheel.
Now that he was in Wyoming, though, he was anxious to meet Kendra face-to-face. She’d reached out two months ago asking him if he knew anything about the plane crash that had killed his father, who was the pilot, and her parents, the passengers. At the time, he’d only known as much as she did. When Kendra had mentioned her sister’s cadaver dog, Denali, had found skeletal remains from his father, he’d been intrigued. He and Kendra had been communicating mostly through email and text messages, along with one computer video call when she’d encouraged him to drive down so they could discuss what might have happened. Kendra had never believed the plane crash six years ago was an accident.
Turns out, Kendra was right. When the hospice nurse had called a week ago to let him know her patient had confessed to murdering his father, he’d been stunned. She’d called the police, too, and the very next day, the Billings police had contacted him about the news. He’d asked what the plan was moving forward, but the cops had simply shrugged. The guy had confessed, and that was that. Case closed.
It wasn’t case closed for him and Kendra, though. He burned with the need to know why his dad had been killed. He and Kendra had arranged to dig further into Stuart Ramsey to find out more. He’d agreed to drive down to Greybull, but now that he was seeing the Redwood Motel in person, he had second thoughts about the plan.
It was too late to turn back now. Glancing at the clock, he slowed and pulled into the parking lot of the motel. Then he headed around toward the back of the property. It was going on five o’clock in the afternoon—probably too late for them to get together that evening, but they could meet for breakfast. He put the gearshift into park and sent Kendra a quick text, letting her know he’d made it to the motel. Then he killed the engine.
As he slid out from behind the wheel of his Ford truck, he caught a hint of movement from the corner of his eye. He turned to get a better look just as the sound of gunfire split the night.
What in the world? He ducked and pressed himself against the metal frame of the truck, fighting to stay calm. Fear washed over him as he crab-walked around the front of the vehicle, trying to figure out where the shooter was located. It wasn’t easy to see in the dark, despite his new contact lenses. Vanity had him trading his glasses for contacts, even though he wasn’t quite used to wearing them. Stupid of him to want to look better for Kendra.
Another crack of gunfire had him lowering his head even farther. His heart slammed against his sternum as adrenaline raced through his bloodstream. It didn’t make any sense that someone would be gunning for him. His life was boring. Predictable. He didn’t even live in Wyoming. Who was out there? A crazy hunter? Someone else? Had he interrupted some other crime in progress?
