His brother and father occupied his thoughts for a good portion of the drive.
Other images intruded occasionally. The group of curious men and women in their blue and black garb.
The brunette in particular, her run-in with the thickset bully.
And, of course, Adam Harper.
Whose death rested squarely at Colter Shaw’s feet.
He thought it best to take Erick Young directly to the Pierce County Public Safety Office to surrender.
He’d considered reuniting him with his family and then calling the authorities but the case was already fraught with changing narratives and actors. He did, however, call the boy’s parents ahead of time and tell them that Erick was all right, and that they should meet him at the PSO.
Shaw’s private eye, Mack, had tracked down a seasoned criminal attorney and sent Shaw the man’s number. The two had a brief conversation about the nature of the crime and what Erick had told Shaw on the drive—his version of the incident at the church, which Shaw believed.
“Well, this’s one for the books,” the lawyer, Bob Tanner, had said in a courtroom-ready baritone.
Shaw had left it to the attorney to coordinate with the parents and the detective about the surrender to the authorities. Now, in the rental, parked a few blocks away from the Safety Office, Shaw felt his phone hum.
“Mr. Shaw?” said Tanner.
“Yes.”
“I’m here in the back of the station, with Erick’s parents. The detective you talked to, Johnson, he’ll be handling the processing. I know him. He’s a good man. No games, no showboating, no perp walks. The press is still in the dark.”
“We’ll be there in five,” Shaw told him and disconnected. “Erick, you ready?”
The boy was looking at an old-fashioned diner. Acme Chili and Sandwich Company. “Mark and I went there, I guess, a couple of times. We had brown cows. You know what that is?”
“No.”
“A root beer with ice cream. Like we were kids again. And fries. Yeah, I’m ready.”
Shortly, they were pulling up behind the old redbrick building—an early twentieth-century police house if ever there was one. Erick’s parents stood beside two older men, both large and unsmiling and in dark suits. The lawyer’s garb was more distinguished, though the other’s was accessorized by a shiny gold badge on his belt.
Shaw climbed out and helped Erick from the car, the detective lifting his eyebrow at the restraints. Shaw cut the zips off and soon the boy was in proper cuffs, hands behind his back. Then the detective looked toward Erick’s mother and nodded, a prearranged signal for a permissible hug. She threw her arms around him. His father stepped forward and embraced the two of them.
“Sorry, Mom. I’m … sorry.” The boy’s eyes swelled with tears.
Crying as well, Emma Young stroked his cheek.
Detective Chad Johnson was a calm man in his forties. He said to the parents, “We’ll get to processing. He’ll be arraigned and there’ll be a bail hearing. He’ll be able to call you at some point soon.”
Shaw went to the rear of his car and opened the trunk, where he’d put the paper bag holding the Smith & Wesson he’d taken from Adam. “Detective?”
“Yessir?”
“It’s the weapon.”
Johnson took the bag.
“You’ll want my prints for comparison.”
“We have them, Mr. Shaw.”
When you get a concealed carry permit, your prints are scanned and sent to a national registry. Interesting that the detective had gone to the trouble already.
Shaw added, “It hasn’t been discharged since I’ve been in possession.”
“That’s helpful to know. We’ll want a statement from you about Adam Harper too.”
“Anytime.”
Johnson and Erick started away, along with the attorney. Erick stopped, turned back. “Mr. Shaw. Thank you. You, like, saved my life.” Then, without waiting for a response, he was led by the detective through the station’s back door.
Shaw returned to the parents. He said, “I don’t know how it’s going to fall out. His story’s different from what we thought at first.”
“Mr. Tanner told us. I checked him out. He’s a good lawyer. Really good.”
Mack’s connections were always really good.
“Somebody else burned that cross.” Emma’s face was staunch. “I knew it. And that poor boy, Adam. He was innocent too. Self-defense. But he still killed himself. What on earth was that about?”
What indeed?
Picturing him diving from the ledge, the leap, the arc, the fall.
Picturing too the smile on his face just before.
A voice from the street in front of the PSO. “Where is he? Ah, I’ll bet that’s him there!”
The man turned out to be short, round and dressed in a dark, pinstripe suit. His age was around fifty. With him was a woman in a pink and yellow floral dress and a black cotton coat that covered only three-fourths of the frock. She was around the same age as her companion.
“Mr. Shaw. You’re Mr. Shaw?” He walked past Erick’s parents.
“I am.”
The man and the woman were both smiling. Their eyes were intense.
“I’m Lucas Slarr, executive director of the Western Washington Ecumenical Council.” He thrust a hand out and they gripped palms. “This is Kitty McGregor, WWEC president.” She too shook, just as firmly as Slarr, though more enthusiastically. They nodded to the Youngs, clearly not caring who they were. Shaw was the hero in this feature film.
“Kitty, do the honors.”
She withdrew an envelope from her sizable beige purse. “Mr. Shaw, we’ve received confirmation from Hammond County that you successfully apprehended Adam Harper.”
“I found him, yes.”
Slarr added, “And the Public Safety press office here said that Erick Young’s been brought in.”
McGregor said, “The terms of the reward offer had nothing to do with the fact that one of the suspects in that terrible crime died. That wasn’t your fault.”
No,
