Watch Your Back

  ‘Do you have their names?’ Deacon asked.

  ‘Names, addresses, Facebook and Twitter IDs. I created a fake identity for myself so I could watch them online. There are three that are particularly active – and talkative – in the killer’s fan club. They’re especially active in August. That’s when the crimes occurred here. I’ll get at least one person every August who tries to find a way in.’ Tanner took the notepad Deacon slid across the table, and wrote the three names. ‘I don’t know how you’d track it, but if you catch the guy and find his computer, you could check it for communication with these three crazy clowns. You might be able to use it as additional evidence against him.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Deacon said, his odd eyes filled with respect. ‘This is good stuff.’

  Stevie was studying Tanner. ‘Why do you stay here?’ she asked. ‘If they try to trespass so often, why don’t you move somewhere where you don’t have to live so locked down?’

  Clay watched his father hesitate, felt his reluctance to answer. Then saw his shoulders sag.

  ‘Because so much of my Nancy is here,’ Tanner said quietly. ‘She only lived here a few years, but it’s all I have left of her. Surely you can understand that.’

  Stevie’s face became instantly, carefully blank. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘I of all people should be able to understand that.’ She stood up, grabbed her cane. ‘Now that the excitement has died down, I think I’m going to try to get some sleep. Clay, Cordelia asked that you call her to tell her you’re all right. She was worried about you. Call Emma’s phone.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Clay said, his heart sinking. She’d already pulled away. She hadn’t even needed the light of day. Just a reminder of her dead husband. Who’d always be between them.

  You’d always be second best. You’d come to hate me. Clay started to wonder if she hadn’t been right about that all along.

  ‘I’ll meet CSU and show them where to search,’ Deacon said. ‘We’ll keep you informed.’

  When everyone left, it was just Clay and his dad. Tanner opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, looking like he felt guilty.

  Clay shook his head. ‘It’s all right, Dad. It wasn’t anything you said. Stevie’s made it plain that she’s not over her husband. I’ve just got to figure out . . . how to walk away.’

  How could he, when it killed him just to say the words? He’d have to find a way.

  Tanner blew out a breath. ‘It’s harder than you think, son. You lost your mother and I know you miss her every day. But I lost . . . part of me. The best part. It’s hard to come to grips with that.’ He stood up, squeezed the back of Clay’s neck affectionately. ‘Harder than you think,’ he repeated softly. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m going to check on the pups. Stevie doesn’t know it, but I promised one of them to Cordelia.’

  Clay’s lips curved, in spite of his heavy heart. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Mannix. The first one she picked up. He licked her face and that was it. He picked her.’

  ‘That’ll stir Stevie up,’ Clay warned.

  ‘Good. Get some rest yourself, son. I could drive an SUV into those bags under your eyes.’

  It was hard to argue with that. He went up the stairs, pausing at the door to his room, where Stevie slept. He was tempted to knock. Tempted to walk right in and . . .

  And what? Take what she doesn’t want to give? Or what she’d give just to scratch her itch?

  Maybe he’d accept, which didn’t make him proud. Resolutely he continued to his room, closed the door behind him, and fell into bed. Alone. With Stevie on the other side of the wall.

  She wasn’t asleep, either. He could hear her moving around. It didn’t look like either of them would get any sleep again tonight.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Monday, March 17, 5.20 A.M.

  Stevie heard the squeak of Clay’s bedsprings and slowly exhaled, disappointment hitting her like a brick. She’d heard the creak of the floorboards as he’d paused outside her room and she’d hoped . . . What? That he’d burst through the door and carry her to his bed?

  She got up and started to pace, not liking her own answer. Because, yeah. That’s exactly what she’d hoped. But he really was done with her. She’d seen it in his eyes when his father had not-so-subtly reminded her that she’d also stayed in a dangerous house because it was all she had left of Paul. But Tanner’s decision had affected only himself. Stevie’s inability to move on had cost her daughter her peace of mind. Had given her nightmares.

  She stilled mid-pace. Clay was speaking quietly. She focused, listening. Then smiled sadly. He was talking to Cordelia, telling her that he was ‘A-okay’, just as he’d promised he’d do.

  Clay might have cared about Stevie on some level, but there was no question that he championed Cordelia. Defended her. Protected her. Like Paul would have, had he lived.

  If their roles were reversed, what would Paul have done? If I’d died, would he have gone on? She didn’t know. She rather hoped he would have, hoped her children wouldn’t grow up motherless. Hoped Paul wouldn’t have been as lonely as she had been over the past eight years.

  She knew he wouldn’t have forced Cordelia to live in a house that gave her nightmares.

  Clay had finished his call. She no longer heard the deep rumble of his voice. She should sleep now. But although she was worn out physically, her mind didn’t seem to care.

  She pulled her laptop from her backpack. She could work on any number of Silas’s cases that she’d hadn’t yet re-investigated. But that wasn’t at the top of her priority list at the moment.

  Instead, she brought up a search engine and typed: 3 BR houses for sale. Izzy would live with them until she married and started a family of her own. And then I’ll be on my own. Alone.

  Stevie looked at the wall separating her from Clay, the yearning in her so strong she could almost taste it. She missed him already.

  So go to him. Tell him how you feel. But she wasn’t sure what she felt, except fear. She felt a lot of that. And lust. She felt a lot of that, too. But lust wasn’t enough for him.

  It wasn’t enough for her either. She’d known that all the times she’d pushed him away.

  She’d known it on his father’s boat. When she’d told him ‘Yes,’ she hadn’t been agreeing to a onetime thing. She’d been agreeing to far more, which had terrified her. And as usual, her fear had come out as anger. So go to him, girl. Tell him how you feel.

  She started to rise from the bed, then checked the urge. Clay was important. Deal with him when your mind is clearer. For now, she had a task that she didn’t need as clear a mind to tackle.

  Her Internet search had brought up hundreds of houses. Methodically she sorted by price, by location. By the kind of place a little girl would want to call home.

  Largo, Maryland, Monday, March 17, 8.10 A.M.

  Dr Sean, the doctor Fletcher had recommended, had finally finished bandaging Henderson’s shoulder. ‘Looks better already.’

  Henderson gave the shoulder a mild roll. ‘Feels better, too. I feel better.’

  ‘Amazing what antibiotics and a good night’s sleep can accomplish.’ Dr Sean dropped the old bandages in a plastic bag and tied the top tightly. ‘I assume you’ll dispose of these yourself.’

  ‘Yes, thanks. It’s better for you not to have proof I was here.’ Henderson worried about the bandages left behind at the Key Hotel yesterday morning, but it was too risky to retrieve them. Besides, Westmoreland probably took them, once he realized I’d escaped by the skin of my teeth.

  The bastard had slashed the tires of the white rental Camry, forcing Henderson to hotwire another car and steal a delivery van. Fleeing for my life. Betrayed by the very people I trusted.

  There had been no trouble at Sean’s clinic at which Fletcher apparently volunteered with frequency. Its main clientele were girls who’d been beaten by either their pimps or johns, followed by drug addicts, and middle class girls who were pregnant and desperate. Th
ere had been no sign of Westmoreland, which meant Fletcher hadn’t disclosed this hiding place.

  Dr Sean sat on a stool, folded his arms across his chest. He was about thirty and still looked like he gave a rat’s ass. ‘I guess you know that your lifestyle is going to get you killed.’

  Henderson focused on pulling on a shirt and buttoning it without straining the new stitches. ‘I promise not to leap in front of any more bullets. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  Dr Sean wasn’t amused. ‘I’m not talking about your occupational hazards. I’m talking about your liver. It’s enlarged. You have cirrhosis.’

  ‘Old news, Doc. Started when I was on my first tour. It’s flared up because I drank some vodka before I got here. I didn’t have any other painkillers and I couldn’t stand it any longer.’

  ‘Uh-huh. You and I both know the truth. You’ve been drinking heavily for some time.’

  It was true, but that didn’t mean Henderson liked hearing it any better. ‘I can stop. I know you hear that all the time, but I really can. I’ll just get through this latest injury and I’ll stop.’

  The doctor rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t mix alcohol with the pain pills I gave you or you’ll do your last tour in the morgue.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it before. Thanks. And if you see Fletch again, pass on my regards.’

  Henderson paid the bill with cash from a rapidly dwindling reserve and walked through the waiting room, where the TV was switched to the local morning show. It didn’t matter which one. They were all the same. Too much banter and too little of the news that really mattered.

  Like which countries weren’t in the middle of revolutions. I need a place to relocate.

  Hand on the waiting room doorknob, Henderson froze. The announcer had just spoken a name that mattered. Henderson’s eyes jerked up to the TV set mounted in the corner.

  ‘Join us at five for a special interview as part of our ongoing coverage of this weekend’s shootings. Dr Emma Townsend, who’s become an internet sensation as the “Florence Nightingale of the Harbor House Shooting Spree”, will sit down with our own Phin Radcliffe in an exclusive, live interview. Don’t miss it. You’ll only catch it here. And now, today’s weather.’

  Emma Townsend. For a brief moment, she’d been dead center in Henderson’s scope. Should’ve shot her first. Mazzetti would have rushed to her aid, then I could have shot her, too.

  But it hadn’t turned out that way. Still, Townsend would know where Mazzetti was. And Mazzetti was the one bargaining chip that could get Robinette to rescind his kill order.

  Henderson jogged outside. There were no cameras on the clinic’s exterior walls. I wouldn’t have gone inside yesterday if there had been. A quick look over the cars parked outside revealed the easiest, fastest vehicle to steal – a rusted out pickup truck literally held together with wire.

  A minute later Henderson had the engine started and was backing out of the space.

  Shit. The name stenciled on the concrete was ‘Dr Sean’. I’m stealing the poor guy’s wheels. Well, it was necessary. I’ll contact the doctor’s office when I’m through with it so they’ll know where to find it. Hell, I’ll even fill it up with gas.

  Which was necessary anyway. The doctor’s gas gauge was on E. Henderson filled the tank at an out-of-the-way station, then did a quick Internet search for the TV station’s address.

  Newport News, Virginia, Monday, March 17, 10.15 A.M.

  Robinette parked a block away from his final destination, already having changed into a pair of painter’s coveralls that he’d purchased at a home improvement store. Nobody gave him a second thought as he walked up to the ranch-style home with its wheelchair accessible ramp.

  Both of the family cars were in the driveway, a late model Ford and a minivan equipped with a wheelchair lift device. It was exactly like the one Brenda Lee had driven for years, which made sense. Brenda Lee had helped Westmoreland pick it out.

  Robinette made one final call to Westmoreland’s cell phone. It went straight to voicemail, as had the last ten calls he’d made while driving the length of the Delmarva Peninsula. So it was time to get tough with his former head of security. His former right hand.

  Robinette didn’t think that Westmoreland had left the country. Robinette wasn’t the computer wiz that Wes was, but he did know how to run a check on Wes’s credit cards. Neither Michael Westmoreland nor Robert Jones – the name on the passport Westmoreland used when he was distributing Fletcher’s special formulas – had purchased an airline ticket.

  And if Wes had left the country? He’ll be back soon enough, if only to get his revenge on me. Once he finished what he’d come here to do, Westmoreland would respond. Robinette was sure of it. And then I’ll deal with him. Pragmatically, he hesitated to destroy someone who might still be of use to him, but Westmoreland no longer was. In the end Robinette had found Maynard’s hiding place on his own. He hadn’t needed Westmoreland at all.

  What Robinette needed was a damn voodoo priest. He was half tempted to hire one, just to put some curses on Maynard and Mazzetti. Their luck was uncanny. But Maynard’s skill . . .

  I wish he worked for me instead of Westmoreland. Where are you hiding, Wes?

  Robinette strolled up to the modest house, toolbox in hand. He did a casual review of the house’s perimeter, emptying a bottle of accelerant as he walked. Then he stopped at the meter, and, pretending to read it, attached to the gas line the small explosive device that he’d built from items he’d purchased from the home improvement store and a Radio Shack.

  He drove away, waiting until he got several blocks from the house to place a call on his cell to detonate the device. A great boom cracked the air, the resulting fireball a beautiful thing.

  Game over, Wes. It’s time to come home.

  Now he needed to get home himself. According to his calendar he had dinner with a city planner at six. If he was late, Brenda Lee would have his hide.

  Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Monday, March 17, 11.45 A.M.

  The smell of bacon startled Clay out of sleep. Rolling over, he reached for her – and patted nothing but empty sheets. He’d been dreaming again, of Stevie in his arms, looking up at him like he was the only man on her mind. In her heart. In her body. But it was only a dream.

  His back no longer ached, but his cock more than made up for it. It was so hard it hurt. The sweats he’d slept in did nothing to camouflage the fact. That he found the bathroom at the end of the hall steamy, the scent of Stevie’s shampoo heavy in the air, made it even worse.

  He emerged pissed off and surly. Ready to find whoever had shot at him the night before as fast as possible because he wanted to get away from her. As far as his feet could carry him.

  He stopped at his bedroom door, briefly considered changing his sweats for jeans, then decided against it. Let Stevie see what she was giving up. Except his father would be downstairs, too. Muttering curses, Clay yanked on a pair of jeans.

  Shirtless and shoeless he went down the stairs, his mind wound way too tight. He didn’t like himself this way. Didn’t like the tight, about-to-lash-out feeling. He needed to let off some steam. Maybe he’d repair the Fiji, take some time off and go fishing with his dad. Or maybe he’d head out west to find his own daughter. To try one more time to get Sienna to listen to him.

  Stevie was standing in the living room, staring out of the picture window at the bay, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked perplexed. He must have made a sound on the stairs because her head whipped around and her eyes went wide.

  He said nothing, aware that her gaze had dropped. Aware that the jeans were only slightly better than the sweats at hiding his erection. So what? Let her see what she’s kicking to the curb.

  She licked her lips and he felt savagely satisfied. He passed her on his way to the kitchen, still saying nothing.

  ‘Clay,’ she whispered behind him. ‘Wait. I need to tell you . . . You need to stop. Clay.’

  He ignored her, hearing her cane thumping
as she followed. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back, but it was too late. He pushed open the swinging kitchen door and froze.

  His father was in the kitchen with a woman, the two kissing like teenagers. Tanner gripped a spatula in one hand and the woman’s breast in the other. The woman’s hand had strayed a good bit lower. For a moment Clay could only stare.

  He jerked his eyes up to the woman’s face and realized he’d seen her before. Recently. But she’d been dressed differently. She’d been wearing a goddamn scuba diver’s dry suit.

  Deputy Nell Pearson. Who currently had her hand on his father’s crotch.

  Nell’s okay, his father had said as they’d stood on the dock the day before. I checked her out myself. Clay guessed his father had at that.

  Behind him, Stevie sighed. ‘I tried to stop you,’ she whispered.

  There had been no need to change his clothes because he now had absolutely nothing to conceal. Catching his father with another woman was definitely a deflating experience.

  And infuriating. The sound that emerged from his throat wasn’t close to speech, but it served to get his father’s attention. Tanner and the deputy leaped apart, breathing hard.

  Tanner closed his eyes. ‘Clay. I . . . I didn’t know you were there.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Clay said tightly. He narrowed his eyes at the woman. ‘Deputy.’

  In her late forties, Nell was slender and toned where his mother had been plump. Her face unwrinkled and young-looking, unlike his mother’s. She was a vibrant blonde, where his mother had embraced her gray. His beautiful mother hadn’t minded looking her age. Pearson didn’t have to worry about it. Because she’s barely older than I am.

  ‘What is this?’ Clay asked icily when Pearson stared at him, wide-eyed.

  Tanner shot him a warning glare. ‘Watch your tone, boy,’ he snapped. He slid his arm around the deputy protectively, pulling her close to his side. ‘It’s exactly what it looks like. Nell and I . . .’ He looked down at the deputy with a rueful smile. ‘What are you, honey?’