by Kylie Brant
In the end, she didn’t need to worry. Cady heard Sadie barking, and by the time she reached the porch, Ryder was holding the door open for her. “Just in time. What do you know about cooking chili?”
“Ah . . .” Her mind went blank as she followed him inside, where she toed off her boots before trailing after him into the kitchen. “You open a can, dump it in a bowl, and warm it up in the microwave?”
“It’s a sad day when my expertise in the kitchen surpasses yours.”
She set her things down next to the breakfast bar. Spotting a Crock-Pot on the counter, she moseyed over as he was lifting the lid off it. The smell was heavenly. “Looks made.”
“Not by me. I should have been more specific. Mom brought this over but said she was leaving me to season it myself. What does that mean? Do you put salt and pepper in chili?”
Her mouth quirked. “Maybe chili powder. Or red pepper.” That was about the limit of her knowledge. “I think she might have meant season it to taste. How do you like it?”
“Hellfire hot.” He cocked a brow at her. “And you?”
“Medium spicy. So season your bowl, not the entire pot.”
He immediately started opening cupboards, muttering, “Do I have chili powder or red pepper?”
Amused, she said, “You do if your mom bought your spices.”
“She likes to help.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Get some bowls and spoons, will you?”
Cady opened cupboards and drawers until she found both, plus a ladle. She set the bowls and ladle next to the pot, and spoons at the bar. She went to fetch glasses before hesitating. “What do you want to drink?”
“I’m having a beer. But there’s milk in the refrigerator if you want some.”
She snagged two bottles of beer and placed them on the bar. A moment later, he was setting two steaming bowls of soup on it, sliding one toward her. “Unseasoned. See what you think.” With amusement, she watched him shake seasonings into his, pausing to bring a spoonful to his lips before sprinkling more. Cady sat down, twisted off the beer cap, and took a drink before picking up her spoon to taste. “This is fine.” She batted away his hand when he reached to hover over her bowl, holding the chili pepper. “I can do without hellfire, thanks.”
They ate companionably, conversation interspersed between eating. “Did you hear from the lab today?” Ryder asked.
“Cyber forensics came through. There were three different numbers on Fielding’s cell that she indicated were Forrester’s. The cell provider is pinging all of them, but the number he used recently is probably most viable. They haven’t gotten anything yet. And as expected, no personal contact info was needed for ownership of the plans related to the numbers.”
He paused in the act of raising a spoon to his mouth. Lowered it, all the while looking at her. “I’m more concerned about what he’d do with the information she gave him about your addition to the case.” His intimation was clear.
“We don’t have proof he was the shooter,” she reminded him. It would boot her off the warrant if and when they received it. “What would killing me gain him? If I’m out of the picture, another marshal will take my place.”
“Maybe he sees you as the first real threat toward his capture.” Ryder resumed eating, his expression pensive.
“He’s had SBI after him for five years,” she scoffed. “My addition is hardly a game changer.”
“It is when he just abducted Cassie Zook.” Ryder pointed his spoon at her for emphasis. “He has to wonder if that’s what brought you aboard, and if it did, how the cops ID’d him. If he’s smart, he’ll figure your appearance probably relates to fresh charges against him. That could have caused him to panic. Maybe he thought taking you out would buy him some time.”
She couldn’t refute Ryder’s words. She was learning more about the fugitive but not enough to predict what he’d do if he felt cornered.
He liked to watch. Michael Simmons’s words floated across her mind, leaving a chill in their wake. The only hard proof she had of Forrester’s recent criminal activity was the grainy security footage of him shoving Zook into a trunk. The one thing she could be certain of was the man’s propensity for violence.
Ryder got up and fetched soup crackers from another cupboard and sat down again, putting the package on the counter between them. Cady ate silently for several minutes before saying, “I worry that having three different numbers associated with him might mean he switches cells frequently. If we’re lucky, he’s still using the number Fielding called days ago. The longest she ever waited for a callback from him was a day. We’ll get something. Soon.” Any location information determined by his cell usage meant the noose was tightening.
Her thoughts shifted to Dylan Castle. His story had struck a sympathetic chord in her from the start. Cady’s situation when she’d lived under Elmer Griggs’s roof had been nearly as confining as the boy’s was. Her world had included school, her grandfather’s house, and the postage-stamp-size backyard. Later she’d been able to escape to the library, and later still to a part-time job. But unlike Dylan, she hadn’t spent her childhood fearing for her life.
They finished eating and cleaned up the kitchen, stacking the few dishes in the dishwasher while she updated Ryder on Hero’s status. “I can pick him up tomorrow.” She smiled. “He’ll have to wear one of those cone things around his neck to keep him from bothering the wound for a while. He’s going to hate that.”
“I don’t blame him. And I already mentioned your situation to my mom.” He slammed the dishwasher shut and turned to look at her. “She’s ready and willing to play nursemaid as needed. She said she’d be delighted.”
Everything inside Cady shied away from the idea. Circumstances were forcing her hand, first into accepting Ryder’s invitation and now his mother’s help. There were reasons she’d avoided being drawn further into his family life. It was far easier to extricate herself from a relationship when there weren’t other connections made.
“So you’ve had a helluva day.” Ryder was fiddling with his bottle, the show of nervous energy unlike him.
“Better than yesterday by far.”
“Goes without saying.”
When he said nothing more, her instincts quivered. “Whatever it is you’re worried about bringing up, just spit it out. You may not have noticed, but I’m not exactly the delicate-flower type.”
He flashed a smile. “A massive understatement, but you’re right. Just a minute.” Mystified, she watched him go to the third bedroom, which he used as an office. He was back a moment later with a stack of folders in his hand.
The sight of them was like a fist to the belly. Her request to view the file on her dad’s death had taken a back seat to recent events. “Are these all from . . . ?” She flipped through the folders. Noted the names on the tabs. “They don’t all relate to my dad.” Confused, she looked at him as he retook his seat at the bar.
“No, and I’ll explain later. This is the one you wanted.” He slipped one out of the pile and rested it on top.
Cady stared at the folder as if it were filled with vipers. For one brief instant, she regretted setting him on this quest. What difference would the contents make? She’d lived with the ramifications of that day all her life. Nothing would change by delving into the details. If anything, they’d just give her nightmares more material.
But her mom’s outburst last Saturday had raised new questions. And she knew she wasn’t going to be able to shunt those aside. Cady had never been a coward. Mentally steeling herself, she flipped open the folder.
The pictures were first. A mug shot of the man who’d fathered her. Lonny Francis Maddix. Her throat went tight as she studied it. The grainy police photo failed to conceal his handsomeness, the arrogance apparent in the jut of his jaw. Her gaze went to the identifying details below. She’d gotten her hair and eye color from him.
Turning to the next image, she recoiled a bit at the photo of her mom. She would have been around Ca
dy’s age at the time and was pretty, with the ethereal air that had attracted men all her life. There were spatters of blood on her face and in her hair. Her lip was split, and her eye had started to swell.
A vise tightened in Cady’s chest as she stared at the image until her eyes began to blur.
“It doesn’t have to be tonight.” Ryder’s voice was low. “It’s a lot, with everything else going on. Might be best to put it off for a while.”
He was handing her an out. Cady could only manage a headshake. She reached for a level of objectivism. Focused on the white nightdress her mom was wearing. The details of it were already etched on her mind, as if that, at least, had been safe to remember. The delicate ribbon that threaded the neckline. The scatter of rosebuds on the white fabric. The rivulets of blood staining it would have come from her injured lip. Or possibly a blow to the nose. Cady willed herself to remember. But she’d only ever recalled snippets of the scene. The shouting. Her mom’s crying. The sound of the gunshot.
She forced herself to turn to the next picture. Caught her breath when she recognized the small weeping child in it in a miniature duplicate of her mother’s nightdress. Her heart squeezed. What had happened later that night? Where had they gone? Who had helped? She didn’t know. And Hannah had never said.
Next were crime photos. Lonny Maddix lying limp against the kitchen door in a pool of blood, eyes wide and staring, a hole in his chest. More images when the body had been taken away, replaced by Xs and a chalk outline. The scarred wooden table.
She paused at the picture of the weapon. It was a small pistol but would still have been large for her four-year-old hand. Cady could almost—almost—recall its weight. The sound of the shot. Those details were constants in her dreams.
You don’t like bad guys, do you, Cady? A shudder worked down her spine. The disembodied voice felt real, but when she tried to pull on that mental thread, she met a familiar blackness. With effort, she refocused on the file. It was a relief to be done with the images. Easier to tuck away the subjective and concentrate on the matter-of-fact police reports. A neighbor had reported the gunfire. That was new information. They hadn’t always had a phone. She didn’t know if that house had had one. Or whether her mom would have been emotionally equipped to call for help anyway.
Chief investigative deputy Harvey Klatt had responded, along with another deputy, Phillip Marlowe. Cady skimmed over the description of what they’d found at the scene. Slowed to read details of her mom’s description of the evening. Lonny Maddix showing up. He’d been a wanted man at that point. She imagined the night had followed a familiar pattern. The drinking. The escalation of abuse.
She turned the page and stopped after the first paragraph, shock punching through her. The gun had been Hannah’s. She’d had a permit. When Lonny had shown up, she’d run and gotten it. He’d taken it away from her. Slapped her and set it on the table. Dared her to pick it up.
It was hard not to focus on the terror her mom had felt that night. The helplessness. She’d been alone. Vulnerable, with a small child to protect. And still, every time Hannah drifted back to those days, she spoke lovingly of Lonny Maddix. As if after all this time she was still under his spell.
Cady was half-aware of Ryder moving to put his empty bottle in the recycling. She didn’t look up. Couldn’t. The report from the canvass done of the neighbors painted a sad and all-too-familiar picture. One statement after another revealed there’d been disturbances at the home before. Federal marshals had spoken to many of the people in the area, advising them to call if they spotted Lonny Maddix. Sheriff Butch Talbot himself had come by to tell them the same.
There was more. Much more. Numb by now, she flipped through autopsy reports. Hospital records. Hannah had been treated and released the same night. Cady slowed again at the report of the gunshot residue test on the hands of Cady Maddix. Read the particle count. There could be no doubt she’d been the shooter.
Don’t go looking for anyone else to cast the blame on, missy. You mighta only been four, but you was the one who picked the gun up off the table and shot your daddy dead. Aunt Alma’s words streaked across her mind. It hadn’t occurred to Cady to doubt that. She hadn’t sought the file in search of absolution. But neither had the contents shed much light on the event.
She turned to the last inserts in the file. They weren’t from the night of the shooting, she noted immediately. And they hadn’t originated from the sheriff’s office.
They were copies of USMS reports.
Their inclusion rocked Cady. Perhaps they shouldn’t have. The federal agency had likely been alerted by law enforcement whenever Lonny Maddix had been sighted. First was a copy of her father’s sheet, surprisingly long for spending only one brief stint in prison previously. Then she took more time reading the summary of the bank robbery that had led to her father’s federal warrant. There had been three men involved rather than the two she’d heard about. Stan Caster had driven the getaway vehicle. Paul Trimbull had partnered with Lonny in the actual robbery of the Community Savings Bank in Black Mountain and had been fatally shot by the security guard.
She skimmed the details about how Lonny and Stan had evaded law enforcement, but she focused on the steps the marshals had taken to track the two of them. Family. Girlfriends. It was a gut punch to read the list of women’s names that had been associated with her father. He’d successfully avoided capture for more than a year before his death. Stan Caster had been captured within weeks.
Aware of the passing time, Cady began to read more quickly. Another report detailed a near miss the marshals had had when they’d had Cady’s family’s house surrounded six months before that fateful night.
Subject ignored numerous opportunities to surrender and exchanged gunfire with marshals. The gunfire was followed by a standstill, in which an extraction plan was discussed. Before that could commence, the front door opened and Hannah Maddix emerged, pleading for an end to the shooting. She reported that the subject was inside, using their three-year-old daughter, Cady, as a shield from the gunfire. Minutes later, Lonny Maddix exited the rear entrance with the child draped over his back and fled on foot, shooting at team members. No shots were returned for fear of striking the child. Members attempted to follow on foot but were kept at bay by gunfire. Lonny Maddix escaped with the toddler, who was recovered unharmed six hours later in Maggie Valley, where it is believed the target stole a car to aid in his escape.
Cady stared at the text until the letters swam under her gaze. Her thoughts were stampeding like a thundering herd through her skull, impossible to corral. But one thing remained clear in the onslaught of accompanying emotion: her life had been identified by a single act. Guilt was her constant companion for killing her father when she was four. A father who had cared so little for her that he’d intentionally put her life at risk.
She forced herself to shuffle back through the pages of the incident report for the night her father was killed. Noted the time. The call to the sheriff’s department had gone in at 11:30 p.m. Long after a four-year-old would be in bed. Based upon what she’d just read, the late hour wasn’t because her father demanded to see her. It was all too obvious that he’d cared nothing for her. She’d likely been wakened by the turmoil and gone searching for her mom, igniting a series of events that would always haunt her.
Cady reached blindly for the bottle in front of her while she worked her way through the file again. Noted the number of welfare checks the office had made on Hannah Maddix and her daughter. They hadn’t been enough to ward off the inevitable.
Finally, she lifted her gaze. Ryder was watching her, his expression grim. She knew in that moment he’d already read the file. Her hand trembled just a little as she closed the folder.
“Thank you. I’m not sure it changes anything, but I . . . Thank you.” It was all she could manage. She was awash in a tangle of emotions. Cady didn’t try to identify them. Couldn’t. “Did you find it in a file drawer, finally?” He was drumming one index finger on t
he counter, a rhythmic tapping. Again she was struck by his unusual nervous energy.
“I found all those files in a secret compartment in the ceiling of my dad’s garage.”
Stunned, she could only stare at him. A moment later, her gaze fell to the other folders. “Are these—”
“They’re unconnected to your case. At least I can’t find a link. I talked to my chief investigative deputy. He thought maybe they’d been hidden because there was something in them an opponent could use in an election. But he couldn’t come up with a reason why they wouldn’t have been in the system.”
A mental image formed. Of the man in the sheriff’s uniform sitting on a chair in their kitchen with Cady’s mom on his lap. One hand inside her shirt, cupping her breast.
She looked away, vowing again to keep the information from Ryder. It took effort to manage a steady tone. “So these aren’t all homicide files?”
“Cady.” His hand snaked across the bar to take hers. “They labeled yours an accident, not a homicide.”
“I know.” She was more shaken by the last hour than she wanted to admit. “I mean, the rest aren’t all similar crimes?”
“Not at all. A call about a property dispute. Domestic assault. Petty theft.” Ryder lifted a shoulder. “Like I said, no link that I can find. Also nothing that would cause my dad to hide them. To keep them off the microfilm he used for old records at the time.”
And now she understood his odd manner. The not knowing was eating at him. Likely he was imagining the worst. “That is strange,” she admitted. But she privately wondered if the subjects in the other files were also women.
And if Butch Talbot had had a relationship with all of them.
Chapter 35
Hero pawed at the plastic cone encasing his head. Looked at Cady beseechingly. “I know, right? It’s humiliating.” The vet had encased his left rear paw in a thick cotton sock and taped it tightly to prevent scratching. An old T-shirt was secured around his body, protecting the wound. Cady stroked him, a ball of relief filling her at having him home. Well, not their home. But the animal seemed more comfortable at Ryder’s than she did. His bed was next to Sadie’s in the kitchen. Their bowls were lined against the cupboards. His discomfort had nothing to do with his location and everything to do with the wound that had him walking stiffly and the protective guard around his neck.