by Julie Miller
And, dear God, both men wore holstered handguns at their waists.
Paramilitary was the word that came to mind. What had she walked into?
Be up front, she decided.
“I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable,” she said, focusing on the older man who almost had to be the leader of this bunch. “Why don’t I head back to Glacier and find a room for the night? I’ll talk to a real estate agent, and if you’d like you can come down tomorrow, meet me for lunch, maybe. We can talk.”
Still appearing relaxed, he said slowly, “That might work. Ah...in answer to your earlier question, what we do is run paintball camps. It’s mostly men who come up here. They immerse themselves in the wilderness and harmless war games, have a hell of a good time. We’ve built up a serious seasonal business. Like I said, finding another location anywhere near as perfect as this one would be next to impossible.”
Because this land was so remote. Leah had to wonder whether it was true Uncle Edward had let them use his place for several summers in a row, or whether they’d somehow heard he had died and moved in under the assumption no one would be interested enough in a falling-down resort in the middle of nowhere to bother checking on it.
She stole another look at the three men on their feet, now ranged around the room. “Those...look like real guns.”
Boss Man across from her shrugged. “Sure, we have a shooting range set up. A bunch of us have been out there all morning. Gotta keep sharp, even if we’re mostly using paintball guns.”
Nobody else’s expression changed.
“Well,” she said, starting to push herself up.
The sound of the back door opening was as loud as a shot. Bounced off the wall, she diagnosed, in a small, calm part of her mind surrounded by near hysteria.
All of the men turned their heads.
Grinning, a man emerged from the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he carried a huge gun, painted army green. Even as he said, “Hot damn!” before seeing her, Leah’s blood chilled.
She’d seen pictures, taken in places like the Ukraine and Afghanistan. That wasn’t a gun—it was a rocket launcher.
* * *
SON OF A BITCH.
Spencer Wyatt restrained himself from so much as twitching a muscle only from long practice. His mind worked furiously, though. Could this juxtaposition be any more disastrous? An unsuspecting woman wandering in here like a dumb cow to slaughter, coupled with that cocky, careless jackass Joe Osenbrock striding in with an effing rocket launcher over his shoulder? Yee haw.
Especially a young, pretty woman. Did she have any idea what trouble she was in?
Flicking a glance at her, he thought, yeah, she had a suspicion.
In fact, she said, in a voice that sounded a little too cheerful to be real, “Is that one of the paintball guns? I’ve never seen one before.”
Good try.
Ed Higgs didn’t buy it. “You know better than that. Damn. I wish I could let you go, but I can’t.”
She flung her full coffee cup at his face, leaped off the bench and tore for the front door, still standing ajar. Smart move, trying to get out of here. She actually brushed Spencer. He managed to look surprised and stagger back to give her a chance. No surprise, the little creep Larson was on her before she so much as touched the door.
She screamed and struggled. Her nails raked down Larson’s cheek. Teeth set, he slammed her against the wall, flattening his body on hers. Spencer wanted to rip the little pissant off and throw him into the wall. Went without saying that he stayed right where he was. There was no way for him to help now that wouldn’t derail his mission.
He had more lives than hers to consider.
Ed snapped, “Get her car keys. Wyatt, go over the car. When you’re done, bring in her purse and whatever else she brought with her. Make sure you don’t miss anything. Hear me?”
“Sure thing.” He knew that once he had the keys, he’d have to hand them over to Higgs, who kept all the vehicle keys hidden away. No one had access to an SUV without Higgs knowing.
Arne Larson burrowed a hand into the woman’s jeans pocket. When he groped with exaggerated pleasure, his captive struck quick as a snake, sinking her teeth into his shoulder. Arne yanked out the set of keys and backhanded her across the face. Her head snapped back, hitting the log wall with an audible thunk.
Spencer jerked but once again pulled hard on the leash. If she would only cooperate, she might have a chance to get out of this alive.
Arne tossed the keys at him and Spencer caught them. Without a word, he walked out, taking with him a last glimpse of her face, fine-boned and very pale except for the furious red staining her right jaw and cheek where the blow had fallen.
She hadn’t locked the car, which didn’t appear to be a rental. He used the keys to unlock the trunk and pull out a small wheeled suitcase, sized to be an airline carry-on, as well as a rolled-up sleeping bag and a cardboard box filled with basic food. Then he searched the trunk, removing the jack and spare tire, going through a bag of tools and an inadequate first-aid kit.
He couldn’t believe even Higgs, with his paranoid worldview, would think the woman in there was an undercover FBI or ATF agent.
She hadn’t packed like one, he discovered, after opening the suitcase on the trunk lid once he closed it. Toiletries—she liked handmade soap, this bar smelling like citrus and some spice—jeans, T-shirts, socks and sandals. Two books, one a romance, one nonfiction about the Lipizzaner horses during World War II. He fanned the pages. Nothing fell out. A hooded sweatshirt. Lingerie, practical but pretty, too, lacking lace but skimpy enough to heat a man’s blood and in brighter colors than he’d have expected from her.
Not liking the direction his thoughts had taken him, he dropped the mint-green bra back on top of the mess he’d made of the suitcase’s contents.
There was nothing but food in the carton, including basics like boxes of macaroni and cheese, a jar of instant coffee, a loaf of whole-grain bread and packets of oatmeal with raisins. The sleeping bag, unrolled, unzipped and shaken, hid no secrets.
A small ice chest sat on the floor in front. No surprises there, either, only milk, several bars of dark chocolate, a tub of margarine and several cans of soda.
He took her purse from the passenger seat and dumped the contents out on the hood of the car. A couple of items rolled off. Plastic bottle of ibuprofen and a lip gloss. Otherwise, she carried an electronic reader, phone, a wallet, hairbrush, checkbook, wad of paper napkins, two tampons and some crumpled receipts for gas and meals. Her purse was a lot neater than most he’d seen.
Opening the wallet, he took out her driver’s license first. Issued by the state of Oregon, it said her name was Leah E. Keaton. She was described as blond, which he’d dispute, but he didn’t suppose strawberry blond would fit on the license. Weight, one hundred and twenty pounds, height, five feet six inches. Eyes, hazel. Age, thirty-one. Birthday, September 23.
She’d smiled for the photo. For a moment Spencer’s eyes lingered. DMV photos were uniformly bad, no better than mug shots, but he saw hope and dignity in that smile. She reminded him of a time when his purpose wasn’t so dark.
Did Leah E. Keaton know it wasn’t looking good for her to make it to that next birthday, no matter what he did?
Copyright © 2020 by Janice Kay Johnson
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ISBN-13: 9781488067792
Crime Scene Cover-Up
Copyright © 2020 by Julie Miller
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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