Page 77 of Wicche Hunt

The nosey old man had no right questioning us or going to the headmaster. A nice fat donation to the building fund, a gardener is fired, and suspicions fade away. That one wasn’t on me, anyway. It wasn’t my idea to kill the stupid cat.

He takes out a cigarette and lights it, feeling like a tough guy in an old movie. His fingers are trembling. He takes a long drag and then coughs horribly, feeling stupid and belligerent with it. He drops the cigarette in the pine needles and crushes it under his shoe.

“Hello?”

Finally. He sees the old man looking around, so he turns on the flashlight on his phone.

The old guy moves forward. “I almost turned around,” he says. “I don’t understand. Why are you contacting me now? I tried to help you years ago and you got me fired.”

“That wasn’t me. You were right about him. I didn’t want to do that stuff. He made me.”

“Okay,” Garza says, moving closer. “But why all this mystery?” He gestures to the dark, empty estate. “You’re a man now. Do what you want. You were done with school bullies years ago.”

“I wanted to apologize for how we treated you.” The excitement is growing as he grips the wooden handle tighter.

Garza looks around, brow furrowed. “Yes, but if you want to apologize, you go to the person. I had to pay to get into this community, so I could drive here, and then wander around this fancy place. If cops show up, guess who’s getting arrested? This isn’t how you apologize.” He says it as though he’s speaking to someone who’s missed quite a few life lessons along the way.

“Don’t worry,” the killer says. “This won’t take long.”

Garza checks his watch. “I need to go. My wife is waiting for me.”

“Here?” He can’t keep the panic from his voice.

Garza squints into the dark, trying to read the young man’s expression. “No. At home.”

“Oh,” he sighs. “That’s good then.”

The shovel comes up so quickly out of the dark, Garza barely registers a glint of metal before it bashes in the side of his head. He drops like a stone and the young man giggles.

Almost done. He takes out his phone, snaps a pic, and texts it away. Another one checked off the list. His father always complains that he never finishes what he starts. He almost wishes he could show his dad the list they started seven years ago. He’s finished quite a few things.

He throws the shovel into the brush and then tries to lift Garza. He can’t do it. He grabs the old man’s wrists and tries to drag him, but it’s harder than he anticipates. He should have made the old man walk closer to the edge before he hit him. Now what is he supposed to do?

His phone pings with a new text. He looks. It’s a screenshot of the old man’s name with a line through it. A zing of pride races through him.

Looking around, he tries to figure out how to move the trim man who couldn’t be taller than 5’6”. Embarrassed, he’s glad he’s alone right now. He’d be mocked for this for years. The shovel! He picks up the shovel and sides it under the gardener’s butt. He grabs one arm and the shovel handle, slowly dragging Garza over pine needles, roots, and branches to the edge of the cliff.

The young man is sweaty and wheezing, but he did it. Rolling the body to the drop-off, he pulls out his phone, opening the camera function. With his foot on the gardener, he gives it a quick shove and then snaps a few more pictures as the body falls and splashes into the water.

Done, he strolls back through the estate, a new spring in his step, swiping through images, looking for the best to send. Once he has, he gets in his car and drives home. Maybe he’ll treat himself to an ice cream. He finished what he’d started, after all.

Blinking, I found Osso and Hernández hovering. “What?”

“You what,” Osso grumbled. “What did you see?”

I explained as I made my way through the trees to the cliff. Pointing at the discarded shovel, I said, “There’s your murder weapon. He wasn’t wearing gloves, so his prints should be all over it.”

Osso took a glove out of his pocket and used it to pick up the shovel.

“I’m kinda torn right now,” I said.

The detectives looked at me.

“I was going to ask you to take me to Mr. Garza’s body so I could read him. He knows something about these two. The thing is, that’s his blood, hair, maybe some scalp right there. I don’t want to touch that, but if I do, it’ll save us a trip to the asshole coroner’s place.”

“And she would be there,” Hernández said. “This is a normal working day for her.”

Great. Sighing, I took off my glove again and—as I didn’t want my fingerprints on a murder weapon—touched the back of my hand to a bloody clump of hair, thinking about how he knew the killer.

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