It was 4 P.M., November 18, 1988, and the sky was starting to spit snowflakes.
When Sharon and her two children pulled up, Diann had not yet unloaded everything from her shopping trip. She smiled warmly at her three visitors. She knew the family was alone that weekend; Diann had waved to Glen Harrelson on the road near the tiny town of Segundo. He was heading toward Denver, back to work, away from the mountains.
By the way she invited herself in, it was clear to Diann that Sharon wanted to stay for a while. Sharon was in good spirits, happy with her marriage. She was wearing a Denver Fire Department T-shirt.
“Glen gave it to me this week,” she said.
Diann said she thought the shirt was nice as she went about the business of making hot dogs and heating up a can of pork and beans.
Sharon and her kids had invited themselves for dinner.
When the snow started dredging the roadway in white, Diann figured her visitor would leave. Sharon hated driving up to Round House when the roads got slick. Without exception, whenever Sharon had been around and it started to snow, she would hurry home.
Except that night. That night, the snow didn’t bother her. She planted herself on the couch, munched popcorn and watched the videos.
And she talked about how wonderful her marriage was to Glen. She was so much in love with him. Everything was wonderful. She complained about how she and Glen just couldn’t get enough of each other.
“Glen and I had the best sex last night,” she said.
Around 9 P.M., the last tape ended and Sharon stood to leave. It was nearly as abrupt as had been her surprise visit. She packed up Danny and Misty and drove off to Round House.
Chapter 27
HOURS LATER, MILES NORTH OF SHARON’S Round House, the wetness she had left on Gary had dried to a noticeable itch. It was a sweet annoyance, a niggling reminder of the hours Sharon and he had spent together under sheets dampened by their careless passion. Of course, no reminder was really necessary. The world spun on an axis created by the two from Wet Canyon and the promises they had made to each other. The smell of her still lingered on him. It aroused him when he smelled her. When he thought of Sharon. He shook his head as if the abrupt action would sift her image from his consciousness. There was no chance of that.
Gary Adams tried to re-focus his weary eyes. Once again, he was a man on a mission, a soldier for love.
Gary parked about a mile away at a bar, and walked the rest of the way to the house. He followed the map made out by Sharon, her handwriting curving in schoolgirl loops and swirls. Seductive, sweet. She had also passed on the key. Gary was glad she had made things so easy. He didn’t want to be found out. He didn’t want to attract attention. He had a job to do, a promise to keep.
It was 8:30 P.M. The Colorado night air was black and cold; as still as a frozen lake.
His mind was racing by the time he stood outside Glen Harrelson's tidy blond brick-faced ranch home at 12370 Columbine Court in Thornton. Though he shouldn’t have, he had a hell of a time finding the place, and had nearly panicked when he passed a fire department only a few minutes from the house.
The same fire department where Glen worked as a firefighter and dispatcher.
With sweat spreading from his armpits down his sides, Gary knew he’d have to get away quickly once he struck the match. After—of course—he had done what he had promised to do.
Gary patted his jacket pocket, confirming the pistol was still there. An eighteen-inch lead pipe he’d stuck into his dusty Levis passed his belt-line and pressed hard and cold against the middle of his rib cage. The .22-caliber handgun had been brought along merely as a backup. It was the pipe he intended to use. A pipe, Sharon reasoned during one of their trysts, would make what was about to happen appear as if a botched burglary had taken place.
A fire would lay a black veil over what had happened. No one would ever know the truth—as they had not known the time before.
Gary glanced over his shoulder as he stood in the doorway. So quiet, so still. Though he was short of breath from his hurried walk, his heart picked up a beat as he slid the key into the lock and turned the knob.
Light from street lamps cut through the expansive glass of a picture window in the front room. The room was barren, save for a pair of recliners and a television set. It was the home of a man who had just moved in, or whose wife had left him with the remnants of a broken marriage.
Deep in the shadows, Gary made his way down the hallway. He wanted to know the layout of the house, though it had been described in detail by Sharon. The first bedroom was empty. At the end of the hall, he found the master bedroom. A dark mahogany bed was neatly made up. On the dresser, he saw the glimmer of gold: a man's wedding band. It was just where Sharon had said it would be. He put the ring in his pocket.