He moaned and typed the words. “What else?”
“Please hurry to get me. Bill gave me your job, and I don’t like it.”
“Not so fast,” Brad said, still hunting and pecking on the word h-u-r-r-y. He made his way through the rest of the sentence.
“I guess that’s all,” she said, her lips beginning to quiver as tears filled her eyes. “I’m glad he’s okay. I thought he wasn’t coming back. I thought he left me here.”
Brad didn’t tell her that he had believed Bill’s story about Jimmy being in jail. He might have known it was a lie. The boxcar thing sounded good—real good. They could get somewhere where Bill would never find them. They could get jobs—and until they did they could steal enough to get by. He hoped it would happen soon, before the police tried to arrest all of them.
“Tell me if he writes back,” Lisa said.
Typing his own note now, Brad nodded. “Yeah, don’t worry, I will.”
In his secret room, Bill Brandon scanned the closed-circuit television monitors that kept him informed of everything that went on at SCCH. He watched with mild curiosity as Brad played in the computer room—then with suspicious puzzlement, watched as Brad called Lisa Westin in. They weren’t good friends—in fact, Brad could hardly tolerate the girl. So why the sudden camaraderie?
He saw Lisa sit down and read something on the computer; Brad shuffled around the door, seeming to stand guard. Whatever was going on here, Bill didn’t like it.
He waited, stiff, until the boy had turned off the computer and left the room. Then Bill headed across the campus to the computer room. A couple of kids had drifted in since Brad had left. Bill said loudly, “Outside, kids. It’s too pretty a day to be playing inside.”
They quickly turned off the computers and headed outside, leaving him alone. He locked the doors, then sat down at the computer Brad had been using. He turned it on, opened the on-line network he allowed them to use, and typed in Brad’s screen name. His list of recent mail came up, but there were only three letters. One from some kid who was under the impression that Brad was the son of a congressman and lived in a mansion with a pool. Bill chuckled with disdain.
He clicked the next message, saw that it was part of a stupid conversation that didn’t interest him.
Then he clicked the third. It was from someone going by the name of JWMan. He read the first line and knew that JWMan was Jimmy Westin.
His face reddened, and he clicked open the “Read Mail You’ve Sent” area, where outgoing messages were held. When Brad’s log of messages appeared, Bill clicked the most recent one.
Lisa’s letter came up, along with Brad’s addition.
After he’d read them, he sat staring at the screen, trying to decide what to do. There was no question that Lisa and Brad should be punished for communicating with Jimmy, but he had to do more. He had to put the fear in them, so that they wouldn’t tell the other kids what they’d learned. He hoped it wasn’t too late. He looked out the window, saw Brad and Lisa talking quietly together at the back of the playground. Lisa was more animated than he’d seen her in days.
He looked back at the screen. Besides punishing the two of them, he had to find a way to make Jimmy come to him, so that he could put him out of commission. Too much was going wrong; there were too many people out there who knew too much. HRS people sniffing around, reporters trying to write exposes of his operation, cops trying to get warrants for his arrest . . . Bill’s whole world was in danger unless he could do some quick damage control, and Jimmy, little Jimmy, was right in the middle of it all. He had to lure Jimmy in somehow.
He clicked “unsend” on the letter the two kids had sent Jimmy, and waited anxiously to see if it was too late. If Jimmy had already opened it, he couldn’t get it back. But if he hadn’t . . .
The computer said that the letter had been unsent, and he grinned. He clicked “edit,” then made a few changes. He deleted Lisa’s portion, then on Brad’s typed in, “Lisa’s hurt real bad from the beating Bill gave her. Jimmy, you need to come get her before he kills her. I’ll leave Stella’s window unlocked so you can get in. Please hurry!”
He grinned as he sent the letter across cyberspace. Now all he had to do was be ready when Jimmy came.
He cut off the computer, then went to the back door and called for Brad and Lisa. Reluctantly, apprehensively, they both came in.
He locked the door behind them, then turned around to Brad. His arm swung and he backhanded the boy with a fist across the chest, knocking him down. Then he kicked him twice, once in each side, until the child was balled up in fetal position, moaning and crying and begging Bill to stop.
When he was satisfied that he’d done enough damage, he turned to Lisa. She shrank back against the wall, tears in her eyes and her face as red as the shirt she wore. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You’ve been communicating with your brother, and so has Brad,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “And I can’t have that.”
He grabbed her shoulders, shook her violently, then flung her across the room. But he didn’t kick her, like he had Brad. Nick or someone else might come around asking about her, and she’d better not have a mark on her. He left Brad lying on the floor, and grabbed Lisa up. Marching her out of the computer room, he dragged her across the campus to another specially built room near his office. This one had been designed for discipline. It had no windows, no lights, and no furniture. Just a bare floor and darkness.
He flung her in there as she screamed in protest, and he locked the door behind her, blocking out the sound of her cries.
Then he sat down behind his desk and tried to catch his breath. No, there wouldn’t be a mark on her—at least not on her body. Just on her mind. And if anyone came asking about either of the Westin kids . . . he could get her out of his “special room” quickly and no one would be the wiser.
As for Brad—no one cared about Brad anyway, so he didn’t expect anyone to ask. He only hoped the beating had taught the kid a lesson.
He couldn’t wait for Jimmy to get his message and show up at the home. With a grin, Bill jumped up and hurried across campus to Cottage B, where he unlocked Stella’s window.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A few minutes after he got up that morning, Nick saw the news reports about the burning of the newspaper building, and quickly phoned Lynda’s house to see if Beth had heard. When he didn’t catch her there or at her own house, he decided to drive to the newspaper building itself. Just as he’d suspected, she stood there in the parking lot, leaning on the fender of her car, staring, stunned, at the smoldering ruins.
He pulled up beside her and got out of the car. “Beth, are you all right?”
She shrugged, then said in a dull monotone, “He stopped us. I knew he would.”
“You really think Bill Brandon did this?”
She sighed. “They just found footprints of children’s sneakers. They came in that window.” She pointed to the part of the building that had not burned to the ground. “There was a ladder left behind, and children’s fingerprints all over it.”
“But I thought Brandon was arrested last night.”
“The stupid judge refused to give them a warrant.” Her voice was so flat, so calm, that he could hear the defeat there. “Now two people are dead, and those poor kids have this guilt on their heads.”
He looked around. “Have Larry and Tony been out here?”
“Yeah, but they’ve gone back to try again to get a warrant.” She looked up at him. “Nick, I’m worried about the kids. What if one of them was burned in the fire? What if they got too close?”
“I’ll go back to SCCH today,” he said.
“What good can you do there? They already know you’re onto them.”
“So I’ve got nothing to lose. If I’m there, he can’t do anything to foil the police’s arrest attempts.”
“All right,” she said. “Do it. Do whatever you have to.”
“And you go back to Lynda’s.”
r />
“No, I can’t. I’ve still got the article on computer. I’m going to take it to the St. Petersburg Times today. Somehow, I’ll convince them to print it.”
“But you can’t go to your house, now that Bill knows where it is. It’s not safe.”
“Nick, I have to. I have to get the disks that the story is on.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
She sighed. “All right. Follow me. It’ll just take a minute.”
She climbed into her car, took a moment to greet Dodger, who had been asleep on the front seat, and cranked her engine. Nick followed her closely all the way home.
“It’s almost over, Dodger,” she said to the puppy. “The article will still come out, regardless of the fire, and Bill will still get arrested, and Jimmy and Lisa and the other kids will be put in safe homes . . .” She tried to believe what she said as she reached the dirt road leading through the trees to her house—but the truth was, Bill had beaten them all. As, deep down, she had known he would.
The house looked undisturbed as she pulled up to it and parked. She got out, put Dodger on the ground, and waited as Nick pulled to a halt beside her car.
Nick insisted on going in first, but Dodger beat him to it. The puppy sniffed around, wagging his tail, and headed for the chew toy lying on the floor. As though he’d never ceased to work on it, he began to chew with his little tail stub wagging.
“It looks all right,” Nick said. “Then again, somebody could be hiding in your attic and we’d never know. Is your computer upstairs?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll just go up and get the disk . . .”
“I’ll go first.” He went up the stairs, checked around the corner, then motioned for her to follow. He stood with her as she found the disk and her briefcase, in which she had put a hard copy of the article. “Here it is.”
“All right, let’s go.”
She followed him down. “I’ll leave Dodger here, I guess. We can come back for him later.” She checked the puppy’s food supply and water, then locked the door and followed Nick back to her car.
He leaned over and dropped a kiss on her lips. “I’ll head over to the home, and you call me when you get back from St. Pete. Go to Lynda’s first—not home, okay?”
“All right. Be careful, Nick.”
“You too.”
With Beth’s car in the lead, they headed down the dirt road leading to the street. They were almost to the end of the road when a postal truck turned in. Since the mailman always left Beth’s mail in her box out by the street, she assumed he must have a package for her, so she did a quick U-turn and rolled her window down as she came next to Nick. “It’s a package. I’d better get it.”
He turned his car around and followed her back.
She got out just as the postman began to knock on her door.
“Hi,” she called up to the house. “Is that for me?”
“Beth Wright?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s an overnight delivery.” He stepped down the porch steps and handed her his clipboard. “Sign here.”
She could hear Dodger inside, whimpering and scratching to get out. He didn’t like being left any more than she did. She signed the clipboard, then took the package, surprised at the weight of it.
“Thanks,” the postman said. “You have a nice day.”
“You too.”
Dodger began to howl and whine, and rolling her eyes, she shoved the package under one arm. Nick had rolled his window down so he could hear the exchange, and she called back to him, “I have to get Dodger, Nick. He’s having a fit in there.”
Before he could respond, she stuck the key back into the door and opened it. Dodger panted and jumped up on her calves, as if he hadn’t seen her in weeks. “I was coming back, you silly little thing,” she said, bending down to pet him. “I wasn’t leaving you forever. Come on, let’s put your leash back on and you can go with me.”
She headed for the kitchen to get the leash. Dodger took the opportunity to dash outside, and she heard Nick’s car door slam. “I’ll get him!” After a second, he brought the squirming puppy back to the door. “Throw me the leash and I’ll walk him. Who’s the package from?”
“I’m trying to see.” In the kitchen, she took the leash off its hanger and tossed it to Nick. Nick stooped in the doorway and tried to clip it to Dodger’s collar, but he slipped free and bolted into the kitchen, his feet sliding on the hardwood floor.
She knelt down to make him quit jumping on her, still looking for the return address. She froze as her eyes located the “From” square. “It can’t be.”
“What?” Nick asked, leaning against the doorjamb to block it if the dog decided to make a break for it again.
“It’s from Marlene Brandon. The woman who was murdered after she talked to me. But it’s postmarked in St. Clair.” Quickly, she got a knife and began to tear open the wrapping paper as she walked back into the living room. She tore off a strip of it, but the package was heavily taped. The dog frolicked beside her, trying to reach the torn strip hanging down.
“But this was an overnight package,” Beth said, puzzled. “How could Marlene have mailed it yesterday? She was dead the night before.”
“Maybe she mailed it before you talked. Maybe the post office just took longer than they should have.”
She sat down on the couch, and Dodger tried to jump up onto it. She helped him, then slid the box halfway out of the envelope. Had Marlene sent her more documents? Photographs? Tapes?
Before she had the chance to slide it all the way out, Dodger rammed his nose against it, sniffing, and it slipped out of her hands. Dodger slipped off the couch with it as it hit the floor and, playfully, he grabbed a corner of the thick wrapping, the cigar box still held half inside, and dragged it across the room, inviting a game of hide-and-seek or tug-of-war.
Beth stood up as he scurried away from her, his tail wagging. “Dodger, stop that!”
The box slid all the way out of the express envelope, landing on its side, and the top fell open.
The explosion sounded like the end of the world. The last thing that crossed Beth’s mind before she blacked out was that Bill had kept his word. He had gotten her. And now she would never be able to tell her story.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
When Beth woke she was lying on the dirt outside. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious. Smoke poured through the charred door of her house. Nick crouched over her, his face stained with soot.
“It’s okay, Beth,” he was whispering. “Just hang on. They’re on their way.”
She heard a siren and tried to sit up. Her head hurt, and she felt dizzy. She began to cough, calling, “Dodger! Dodger! Nick, where’s Dodger?”
But the look on Nick’s face was a clear enough answer even without words. Distraught, she sank back against the ground.
“Hang on,” he said. “An ambulance is coming.”
She became gradually aware that he wasn’t simply touching her to reassure her, but rather that he was pressing hard on her chest because she was bleeding. She closed her eyes, feeling nauseous. The fire truck wailed toward her house, getting louder and louder, and she opened her eyes just in time to see it jerk to a halt and the fire crew leap off and begin unwinding the hose. Behind the fire truck came an ambulance, and two EMTs rushed to her. Nick moved aside as the two began to check her vitals.
In minutes, she was in an ambulance racing to the hospital.
When the ambulance reached the hospital and she was whisked inside, she again saw Nick’s worried face as he jogged along beside the gurney. Then darkness closed over her.
In the waiting room, Nick stood at the window, staring out at the pond they had sat at just last night. How could he have let her open that package? Why hadn’t he realized what it was and snatched it out of her hands? Why hadn’t he been clued by the return address of the dead woman?
Smoke inhalation, burns, a chest wound—but Beth could have been killed
. If the puppy hadn’t knocked the box off the couch, if she’d had it in her lap as Bill Brandon had intended, she would have been. Instead, the dog was blown apart, and she’d been knocked back.
He had dived toward her the moment the bomb had exploded, had dragged her out of the fire started by whatever incendiary device Brandon had included in the box. Then he had scrambled to her car where he knew she kept a phone. He’d been shaking so hard he almost hadn’t been able to dial 911.
Thank God she was alive.
The sliding doors to the emergency room opened, and Lynda and Jake burst in, with Jimmy on their heels. He had asked a nurse to call them, for he hadn’t had the composure to do it himself.
“How is she?”
“She’s in surgery,” he said. “She has a pretty bad chest wound. I don’t know . . . how bad it is.”
“I got hold of Larry Millsaps in his car,” Lynda said. “He’s heading out to Beth’s house with a bomb inspector, and he’s determined to get definitive evidence against Bill Brandon. He’ll need it—he said they tried again today to get an arrest warrant for Brandon, and Judge Wyatt refused again.”
“What is wrong with that judge?” Nick shouted, slamming the heel of his hand against the windowsill. “If he’d issued it last night, there wouldn’t have been a fire at the paper, and Beth wouldn’t have . . .” He stopped, unable to continue.
“I don’t know, Nick. Judge Wyatt is really hard-nosed. I always try to avoid him in the courtroom if I can. He’s not the most reasonable man in the world.”
“Then what’s he doing on the bench?”
“He’s a lifetime appointee. Plus, he’s the presiding judge. There’s no one higher to appeal to unless they go to the prosecutor. He has great job security.”
“Even if he’s an idiot?”
She sighed. She was still trying to find an answer when the doctor came out and looked around for Nick. “Mr. Hutchins? She’s out of surgery, and she looks good. We were able to clean all the fragments out of her wound—it wasn’t as bad as it looked, and her stitches should heal quickly. Thanks to you, her blood loss wasn’t bad, nor did she inhale much smoke. You just may have saved her life.”