A lanky deputy with a smattering of freckles and unruly copper-colored hair approached. “Hey, Ben.” Greer pointed to Locke and introduced him. “Deputy Garrison,” she returned to Locke. “Any news? I’m basically barred from investigating.”
“Which stinks.” He glanced at Locke. “Greer is one of the best investigators.”
Greer’s cheeks reddened. “Thanks, Ben.”
“I’m switching out with Adam tonight. Every thirty minutes,” Ben said. “But I don’t know how long it’ll last. Overtime and all. But we both agreed, we’re happy to do it on our own time.”
Locke studied him, unsure if he was being friendly or if there might be a crush hidden in there. Greer had no idea how attractive she was inside and out. It was part of her unintentional charm.
Greer stood. “I appreciate that, but it’s not necessary.” She eyed Locke and the war raged in her eyes again. “Locke and I are...we go back a ways, and he’s going to be staying at the house a few days. On my couch.”
Locke tried not to roll his eyes.
“Whatcha in town for?” Deputy Garrison asked.
Locke told him and the next few minutes they discussed tornadoes. How many Locke had seen. Been in. Filmed. Photographed.
“That’s cool. Is it like that movie? The one with the twister?”
“Twister?” Locke smothered a laugh. “Yes and no. In real life, that belt wouldn’t have held Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton. They would have been goners long before they tied it. Once the roar sounds, the whirlwind eats up everything in its path faster than you can even begin to imagine.”
Ben stared at him then shivered. “You ever scared it’ll get you?”
More times than he could count. “I don’t do this job as a death wish. I’m not one of those. I make sure to stay in the safe zones, and I know when I need to tuck tail and get out of Dodge.” But sometimes he’d cut it close for the shot. “That’s why I’m a part of this project. People need longer warning times. And scientists need to know which storms will cause a tornado to help improve that.”
“What about you, Greer?” Deputy Garrison asked. “You ever chase a tornado?”
Greer peered up at Locke, a whirlwind in her eyes. “A time or two,” she murmured.
Dozens.
“Not for you?” he asked.
“I guess not.” She turned to leave. “Please keep me posted on the investigation.”
“Will do.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Drive-bys start at midnight,” he called.
She waved a hand, acknowledging him, and pushed the door open. Smelled like rain. It was almost ten o’clock. “You hungry?”
“No, but I need to eat.”
“Where to?”
Greer rubbed her injured shoulder and scowled. “The carnival.”
Locke slowly glanced over and eyed her. “The carnival? You serious? You jonesin’ for a turkey leg or something?”
“No. I want to talk to the knife thrower.”
That didn’t seem like a great idea. She wasn’t even supposed to be working the case. And if that wasn’t enough, if the killer was there and found a prime opportunity, he might attempt another attack. Put her on the wheel of death and spin her right round in a really bad way. “I don’t know, Greer...”
“This guy tried to put a knife in me tonight. And Thursday night. I can’t even stay in the same house as my child. No one took my badge from me, Locke. No one is going to take away my ability to do my job—to hunt my killer like he’s been hunting me.”
He paused at the stoplight and peered into her brown eyes. No nonsense in them. She wasn’t going to back down and if he didn’t go with her, she’d go alone. He knew it. “Okay, but here’s the deal. I’m in this with you. A partner. Private security. So I get to ask questions. I get to probe, too.”
“A glorified babysitter?”
“Glorified babysitter. Special nanny. Manny. I don’t care what you call it. It is what it is. Or I’m taking you back to the house, barricading the door with my body and not letting you out until morning.” He returned her stubborn attitude and doubled it with a high dose of don’t-try-me.
With fire in her eyes, she lit him up, and for a few seconds he thought she might give him another go, but she finally sighed and agreed. “You can’t impersonate a police officer.”
“I know that’s illegal.”
“And I know you’re impulsive and act before you speak eight times out of ten.”
“You’re not wrong.” He chuckled and she laughed. Locke turned left instead of right at the only stoplight on the square. “What if we find him?”
“I’m going to shoot him between the eyes,” she said, but he heard the teasing behind it. Greer would never pop a cap in someone willy-nilly. But eight times out of ten Locke might. Not really.
“You’re not carrying, are you?” she asked. Guess they were having the same thoughts.
Locke pulled through the gate at the fair. Town volunteers taking money at the gates had already packed up. The Ferris wheel lights were off, signaling the carnival was closed. “It’s in my truck. But Alabama honors Georgia’s conceal-to-carry permits.” He gave a wide grin. “I’m free to wear this bad boy in my concealed holster.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Greer, I’m not going to shoot him. I mean I might. But not in cold blood. I’d tell him to start running first. Grace and all.”
Greer snorted at his joking. “You sure about this?”
“Yes.”
He cut the engine in the parking lot, and they trailed through the mud in their hiking boots. The air was nippy. Cloud covering hid the stars and moonlight projected nothing but nefarious shadows that stretched across the makeshift field parking. Locke scooted closer to Greer as they marched their way through the carnival.
Wet pavement. Muddy grass. Extension cords. The smell of childhood memories. They strode past the filthy rides and strips of games. Hanging stuffed animals looked cheap and unattainable. Passing the carousel, Octopus and Smashinator rides, they neared the tent that held the wheel of death. What sane person would allow someone to stake them to the wheel only to spin it and toss knives, hatchets and darts at them? Locke wasn’t sure he trusted anyone that much. Not even his mama.
Greer hesitated outside the dingy, white tent. A gust of wind rattled the entrance—a plastic door flap. “We can skip this,” Locke said.
“No. We can’t.”
And Greer stepped inside.
* * *
Greer choked back fear. She was putting up much more bravado than she felt, especially with every throb of the knife wound in her shoulder. If he’d gotten closer. If it had been lighter. If...if...if... She inhaled and scanned the tent. Two sections of chairs for spectators. One middle aisle. At the back of the tent was a huge wheel covered in nicks. “Hello?” Greer called. “Jenkins County Sheriff’s Department.”
A lithe woman wearing a turquoise sequined dress stepped out from behind a back area in the tent. She wore huge feathers in her hair and her eye makeup matched her dress in shine and color. But her eyes were dark and guarded. “Can I help you?” Her gaze shifted from Greer to Locke, lingering a little longer than curiosity should have allowed. Yeah, he was a sight to see. Greer’s protective and slightly jealous reaction surprised her.
“I’m Deputy Montgomery and this is Mr. Gallagher.” No reason she needed his first name. “I’m guessing you’re the impaler’s assistant?”
“I am.”
“Don’t let her fool you. She’s a dead aim.” A deep voice laced with one too many cigarettes sounded from behind and in walked a shockingly attractive man in his early thirties. Hair as black as Locke’s. But instead of blue eyes he watched her closely with eyes as dark as coal. He had a gypsy appearance. Tall. Built. Johnny Depp, only broader.
“I’m Deputy—”
“Mon
tgomery,” he said with a Cheshire grin and stepped forward, extending his hand. “I heard.” If he’d inquired about her name, had he inquired about her home address? Broken in twice and tried to kill her? He glanced at the assistant, who stood scowling. Maybe it was her turn to feel jealous.
“And you are?” Locke commanded.
“Marco Wise. But friends call me Marty.” He didn’t look like a Marty. He absolutely looked like a Marco. “Are you looking for me?”
“I am. Could we see your throwing knives, perhaps?” Greer asked, then tossed in a sunshiny smile. “Please.”
Marty held her gaze. “Can I ask why?”
“Does it matter?”
One beat. Two. Another grin, as if he had the best kept secret. “Star, would you bring my set of knives in for the lovely deputy.” He didn’t even bother to look at Star. Was that her real name? “Pardon me for being so bold, but you have the most exquisite eyes. Burnt sienna with flecks of amber. Framed in spun gold. You could be a fairy-tale maiden.” He spoke like he was from another time. He was frightening and alluring at the same time. “I also paint,” he added sheepishly.
“With knives?” she asked, ignoring the unnerving description he gave of her.
He tossed back his head and laughed. Marty wore a white pirate’s shirt and silky black pants with black riding boots. Maybe he was a pirate. Had he tried to steal her life tonight? “No, but that’s not a bad idea.”
Star returned and slammed the leather box on a skinny table near the wheel of death. “Anything else?”
Marty cocked his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
She spun on her stilettos. Greer noticed part of her costume was unzipped, as if she had been taking it off when they’d arrived. Or putting it on? Didn’t Marty say she was an accurate thrower? But she was here. And so was he. Meant nothing. Either one of them easily had time to return from the woods to the carnival while Greer and Locke were at the station.
“Have you been here all night?” Greer asked before she disappeared behind the curtain.
“Yes, why?” Star turned and eyed her warily.
“Have you, Mr. Wise?” Greer swung her gaze from Star to Marty and back again. Tension mounted.
“I have. I had a show at seven. And then I wandered the grounds. I love the weather before a storm. Don’t you?” he asked.
Was he taunting her?
“Okay, open up the box and let us see.” Locke finally stepped up, aggravation and irritation front and center in his voice. Marty only grinned and opened the leather case.
A set of twelve knives.
Identical to the one thrown at them. Greer’s throat swelled and her stomach knotted. But all twelve were here. “This your only set?”
“No. But these are the ones I threw at Miss Star tonight. Tomorrow, hatchets. You should come and watch.” He closed the case. “May I ask why you’re so concerned with the knives?”
“Because someone tried to nail her with one, and they’re identical to yours. So, I gotta ask. Did you try to land one of these into the deputy?” Locke stood about an inch above Marty, and the menace in his eyes was palpable.
Greer had wanted to keep the happenings tonight close to the vest, but Locke, in his impulsiveness...
Marty raised a thick eyebrow. “Might you have led with that, Deputy? You’re welcome to accompany me to my trailer—”
“Nice try, pal. She’s not going anywhere with you.”
Marty raked his hand through his shaggy bangs. “I see.”
“I kinda don’t think you do,” Locke sneered.
“All my blades are in my trailer except the set I used tonight. They’re very common. Easy to purchase online.”
Greer tamped down her temper. Letting Locke this close to the investigation was a mistake. “Did you know Flip Bomer well?” Turn tactics.
“Ah, Flip. Everyone knew Flip.”
“What about Tiny Tim?”
“Yes.”
“Were they friends?” Greer asked.
“No one was friends with Flip.” He picked up a knife, balancing the tip on his index finger. “I’ll tell you a secret, Maiden—”
“Deputy.”
“Deputy. Tiny Tim was a drug dealer more than he was a carnival employee. His death would be more about drugs or drug money than anything else. Flip knew about those drugs along with everyone else, so if Flip was blackmailing Tiny—it wasn’t about something he wasn’t hiding too hard.” He inched his eyebrow farther north. “However, if everyone knew about the drugs...why wouldn’t someone do something about it?”
Interesting question. One he seemed to already know the answer to. “What would it have been about?” Greer watched him effortlessly keep the knife perfectly still on his index finger while he kept his eyes on her.
“Well, I suppose that would be an investigator’s job. Which I’m not. I know beautiful women. And knives.” Another grin that ripped across her like icy claws. He popped the knife in the air, caught it and slung it at the wheel, landing it in the bullseye. “Anything else, Deputy?”
“No.” Greer looked at Locke. “Ready?”
“Definitely.” He glared at Marty and protectively shielded Greer as they left the tent. “Okay, that guy was a freak show. Spun gold. Really?” He tugged at her hair. “Flaxen. Maidens’ hair is always flaxen.”
She slapped at his hand and laughed. “How about you and Mr. Wise leave my hair out of your discussions.”
“I didn’t like him,” Locke said. “Hair comments. Eye comments aside. He’s creepy.”
“But handsome.”
“What?” Locke’s indignation sent her into a spasm of laughter.
“Well, he was. I can’t decide if he’s trying to charm me or kill me. He sort of fits the build. Both have beards and mustaches.”
“I need a funnel cake.” He pointed toward a stand. Two older women were inside cleaning up.
“It’s closed.”
“Charm, huh? Watch the master. I’m about to charm them out of two funnel cakes. Extra powdered sugar. Maybe even a lemonade. And at no charge.”
Greer had no doubt Locke would return with everything he asked for. He had a silver tongue and a way with his eyes, mixed with a lopsided grin and that deep dimple in his right cheek. “I’ll be over here waiting while you finagle dessert. And I expect you to share.”
About five feet away, he turned. “He was not handsome or charming.” He gave her a somber look and pointed toward her. “Clearly your taste has gone downhill since me, counting the deputy boyfriend—who might not like you ogling a suspect in your attempted murder case.”
He swaggered to the funnel cake stand. Greer admired his humor, his charm. His good looks. Marty might be handsome in an exotic way, but he held no candle to Locke’s perfectly symmetrical face. Square chin. Dazzling eyes. She needed to quit ogling him. She might also need to come clean about Adam. It was easier to let Locke believe that Greer was seeing someone. Not that he’d try to charm her again. They had more history between them than a college world-history textbook.
Greer leaned against the popcorn machine, the smell making her stomach rumble. Truth was the instant she chose to hide Lin from Locke, she knew it had cut ties for good.
One of the women laughed. Locke had those funnel cakes in the bag. Good, she was hungry.
A skittery feeling raced across her skin as a leather-encased hand covered her mouth and nose, yanking her behind the machine and into the shadows. Something sharp pricked through her T-shirt and into her ribs. Knife! “Not a peep,” he said in a gravelly, Batman-type voice.
Greer fought as he hauled her about three feet away, his knife digging into her ribs. He dragged her through the side door to the fun house as she kicked and worked to reach her gun, but the way he had her confined kept her from it.
He toyed with a strand of her hair. Nausea rose
in her throat. He flung her to the floor of the empty fun house. Strobe lights messed with her vision and loud music with too much bass thumped in her chest. Mirrors lined the black-and-purple-walled building. She was completely disoriented.
He held the knife to her throat with one hand while his other hand pinned her arms by the wrists above her head. “You’re dead,” he growled.
With all her strength, she came up and head-butted him. He released his grip and she kicked his gut and sprung up, reaching for her gun. He rolled behind a mirror. All Greer saw was herself in dozens of mirrors, some of them distorting her appearance and shape.
Where had he gone? She had to find him. He couldn’t escape again.
She glanced around. Was that footsteps? She couldn’t tell. Suddenly, her insides grew hot, her adrenaline raced. Was she having a panic attack?
Moving down one row, she turned left into a dead end. A figure in the mirror had her flinching. It was only her reflection.
“Greer!”
Locke. She didn’t want to holler back and give away her position. She backtracked, weaving up and down rows until she froze. Dead in her tracks.
The faceless figure stared back at her, all in black. She couldn’t make out a single feature, which sent a chill up her spine.
He raised a knife. Drew back.
Something toppled her to the ground as a knife missed her and struck the mirror, which rained down in broken pieces.
Locke was on top of her back. Covering her. Who was covering him?
“We have to get out of here. We’re on his turf,” Locke yelled over the deafening music.
But they were so far in she wasn’t sure where out was. Was the killer still inside, biding time? Waiting to strike again? Fear clung to every nerve in Greer’s body.
“Left,” Locke instructed as they got up. He led her down another section of mirrors, their reflections sending her into fresh waves of fear. Two rights. One more left and she felt a draft.
Killer Exposure Page 7