Survive the Night (Lost, Inc.)

by Hinze, Vicki

  “Okay, then. If I’m good, he’s better.” The truth in that hit her like a sledge. “Paul, what if the reason we didn’t spot him is that he’s got the same training we’ve got? He knows the tactics.”

  “Thinking along those same lines. But, man, I hope we’re wrong and he’s not a pro.” He checked the rearview. “This is one time we don’t want to be evenly matched.”

  An edge could be the difference in success and failure, in survival and death. “Yeah, well, we don’t always get what we want. Instead of an edge, we’ve got a new worry.” Della looked over at him. “Tommy’s description is vague, but it doesn’t fit Dawson or Crawford.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Could the stalker be working with someone else? We know a woman shipped the package.”

  “Maybe a man posing as a woman. But the man Tommy described at the Boat House was too tall and muscular to pull off being me.”

  “True, and Sammy’s at an age where he’d notice. The shipper was a woman.” Paul changed lanes and then added, “But when he was pushing the lawn mower, he was alone.” Paul made a left and braked for a runner crossing the street. “Crawford always works alone. What about Dawson?”

  “Alone. Definitely. He’s antisocial.” Not Dawson? Not Crawford? Then who could or would do this to her? Someone working for Talbot or Dayton? Neither of them would dare to dirty his own hands. Not with those promotions dangling in front of them. Someone on one of her cases? Not likely. They’d come up dry.

  That she didn’t know for certain who was behind all this most scared her. The enemy was under her nose, tracking her like prey, and he was still unknown and unseen by her. She could walk past him—might have walked past him dozens of times—and not even know it.

  Paul made the turn onto her street and pulled into the driveway at the cottage. He cut the engine and stilled, his expression grim and tense.

  Della alerted. “What’s wrong?”

  “The new locks didn’t hold.” Paul pointed toward the porch.

  She leaned over to look past the rearview mirror and took in a sharp breath.

  The front door to her cottage stood wide-open.

  * * *

  The front door rocked back on its hinges, wide-open, mocking her.

  The police arrived and, led by Detective Cray, they went through the house. One officer shouted down from upstairs, “All clear.”

  Madison and Mrs. Renault stood out in the front yard with Paul. Della stepped away to recommend her neighbor Jean Manning go back home with her children until they were sure the area was safe. She was prone to chatting, and Della couldn’t get away from her. Half listening to Jean drone on, Della tried to key in on what the others were doing, but caught only snippets. Jimmy was working the neighborhood to see if anyone had noticed a stranger, and Doc was tied up on his cell phone with the locksmith, Ken Sampson.

  Doc stowed his phone in a clip at his waist and returned to the group. “Ken didn’t see anybody other than Luke, the contractor. He finished up, put the new keys inside the back door on the kitchen counter, locked up and then left a spare under a rock by the back door.”

  “What about the men securing the garage?” Della asked. Plywood covered the blown-out front wall, the burned-out roof.

  “Luke and his men were still here working when Ken left, so I called him. He didn’t see anyone else, and his crew left together.”

  Paul swiped at a mosquito buzzing at his arm. “Cray hasn’t determined a point of entry. Or if he has, we haven’t been told.”

  “This is getting beyond ridiculous.” Madison bunched her pale blond hair at her nape and secured it with a scrunchie, then headed up the sidewalk. “Detective Cray? Where are you?”

  He stepped out onto the porch. “Madison. Good to see you.” His smile was broad, his teeth pearly-white. His suit was rumpled and his shoulders were straight. Nice-looking man of about forty—too old for Madison, who was barely thirty, but she had his full attention.

  “I wish I could say the same, and ordinarily I would be delighted to see you, but too much has happened in too short a time,” she told him. “I’m worried about Della.”

  Realizing she had only half Della’s attention, Jean raised her voice and Della couldn’t hear the detective’s response, but clearly Madison didn’t like it. Her smile faded, and she clamped her jaw. Whatever he had said clearly ticked her off. “Did you hear him?” she asked Jean as the detective went back inside.

  “No, I didn’t.” The woman frowned. “Are you listening to me?”

  “I’m sorry, Jean. It’s a bad time. I really need to get back. Excuse me.” She started to step way, but the woman continued to drone on. Surreptitiously, she inched a couple of steps closer to the group so she could better hear.

  Paul looked as angry as Madison. “Nonsense.”

  “What did he say?” Della muttered, and when Jean shrugged, she got firm. “I really have to go now.” She walked away and joined Paul.

  He was tense, head to heel.

  “Paul?” Della asked, her stomach fluttering. “What did Detective Cray say?”

  No answer.

  Mrs. Renault answered, and her habitual cool exterior was ruffled. “He thinks you’re doing this to yourself. The man’s shortsighted at best. Dismiss him.”

  “Why would anyone do this to herself?” Della started shaking. Her mind tumbled into conspiracy theories where Cray was working with Talbot and the vice commander, setting her up. Had they actively recruited the detective or was he a victim, too? It had to be Cray or Talbot—unless she was totally off base, connecting what was happening to her to the security breach at their top-secret facility, the Nest. Tag her and neither man lost his promotion. Both of them mistook grief for instability, though honestly right after Danny’s death, when Jeff blamed her and then walked out, she had been unstable. But she had not been and wasn’t crazy. To breach security on a classified project, she’d have to be both. Yet at this point, who could predict how far they would go? At the moment, even she didn’t know what to believe, but for the fact that she was not guilty.

  The problem was that sometimes innocence wasn’t enough to save a person. Big fish use big bait and big hooks. To them, she was a guppy. Expendable.

  Inside, she quivered, and swallowed hard.

  “Miss Jackson,” Cray yelled out to her. “You can come inside now.”

  Della started up the walk on shaky legs, hoping her knees didn’t give out. Paul, Mrs. Renault, Jeff and Doc followed her.

  She paused beside the detective just inside the front entryway. “If you think I’d do this to myself you’re sadly—and dangerously—mistaken.”

  He had the grace to blush. “Just doing my job, considering all possibilities.” His eyes narrowed, and any hint of shame in them vanished. “There’s no sign of forced entry, but a lot of things are missing.”

  Paul stepped closer, put a proprietorial and supportive hand on her shoulder. “She was with me the entire time. She couldn’t have done it.”

  “The entire time?” Cray asked.

  “Yes. We went to Panama City and then to the Boat House,” he said, then relayed their activities from the night before when he picked her up at Miss Addie’s through the run-in with Tommy Jasper and the mailbox, closing with their conversation with Tommy and his father.

  Cray’s suspicion faded. “The cottage is pretty much a disaster, Miss Jackson. It’s been cleared and my team just finished downstairs. They’re headed upstairs now. Stay on the first level until we give you the okay to go up.”

  She nodded and walked inside.

  “I’m afraid your living and dining room furniture’s been stolen.”

  “There wasn’t any.” She looked up at Cray. “They weren’t furnished.”

  He seemed baffled. “I thought you’d been living here three years.”

  “I have.” She walked on.

  Mrs. Renault interceded. “May I speak with you, Detective?”

  “Mrs. Renault.” He spared h
er a tentative smile. “You’re looking well.”

  “Thank you.” She clasped his arm. “Outside, if you please.”

  Madison whispered. “Uh-oh. I know that tone. She’s going to blister his ears.”

  “No doubt about it.” Jimmy nodded, his lips pursed. “I hate it when she gets that tone in her voice. You’re doomed. I’ll take a ten-mile hike in full gear over that ear-blistering anyday. But in his case, it’s fine by me. Suspecting Della? He’s earned it.”

  Appreciating the support, Della walked around the corner into the kitchen. Countertops still empty. The place did look robbed. And lonely. Truthfully, it was. Three years ago, she’d been desolate and alone. Her home reflected the way she felt. But was she the same person now as then? Honestly?

  Della glanced at Paul, talking to one of the uniformed officers, to Madison and Jimmy, and glimpsed Mrs. Renault, who stood on the front lawn indeed blistering Detective Cray’s ears. He was doing a lot of listening and grimacing but no talking. At least he was wise in that regard. She’d needed them, and they’d come.

  And there had always been Miss Addie, who had tucked Della under her wing, not with pity but with strength and fortitude, reminding Della she could endure and grow and be strong again—it was possible. Miss Addie didn’t harp on it. She’d done it herself. Twenty years ago, her husband went to the store for milk and bread and never came home. She hadn’t known how to balance a checkbook. But she could cook and take care of homes, and she loved those things. Now she owned the café and a dozen cottages. She’d been a surrogate mom in many ways—keeping Della focused day-to-day, bringing her chicken soup when she had the flu—and would have been even more so if Della had permitted it.

  Paul’s voice snagged her ear. “It wasn’t stolen. It was empty.”

  Paul. Who was always there, always kind and caring, always just on the other end of the phone whether it was two in the morning or two in the afternoon. Her heart warmed. She wasn’t the same now as then. She wasn’t alone. Not anymore. She had no family, but she had good friends who genuinely cared about her.

  If God did exist, maybe He did that. Maybe He brought good people into your life to fill the empty space. If He did exist...

  She’d been angry, felt abandoned. Been angry and abandoned, and she’d blamed God for not protecting Danny and her. But had He failed Danny? Or her? She had failed her son. Jeff felt he had failed them both. But if God did exist, was her life now God’s way of taking lemons and making lemonade?

  Having mixed feelings about that, she tucked it away to think on later and walked on. The fridge stood open. Smells of warming food filled her nose. She peered inside at the tumbled Chinese food cartons and spotted something—her stomach plummeted, coiled into knots. “Paul.”

  He joined her, looked inside. “Jimmy,” he called out. “Get Detective Cray.”

  “What’s up?” Madison stepped around the corner.

  Della turned to look at her boss. “There’s a baby bottle of milk in my fridge.”

  Cray returned with Mrs. Renault. “You need me?” he asked Paul.

  “There’s a baby bottle in the fridge.”

  He called over an officer. “Collect that as evidence.”

  “Detective,” someone called out from the top of the stairs. Urgency rippled through his voice. “Up here.”

  He took the stairs two at a time. Paul and Della followed, their footfalls echoing like thunder. A uniformed officer stood at the head of the stairs, his face pale, his expression confused. What was wrong?

  “Where?” Cray asked.

  “Bedroom, sir.” He motioned to Della’s room.

  Cray entered. “Wait here.”

  From the doorway, Della pegged the officer’s upset.

  A bloody knife protruded from her pillow.

  And across the once crisp and unwrinkled white sheets scrawled in thick black marker were the initials D.B.D.

  Cray swung around to look at Della. “Who is D.B.D.?”

  “Wrong question,” Paul said from behind her. “It’s not who, but what does it mean?”

  Cray waited.

  “Dead by dawn.” Della’s voice trembled.

  Cray’s expression went dark, then darker. “Your stalker?”

  She nodded.

  He muttered. “Lock it down!” he shouted. “Everyone out on the porch. Now!”

  Not expecting him to yell, a rattled Della jerked and stumbled into Paul.

  He steadied her, and asked Cray, “What are you doing?”

  “We cleared the second floor before anyone else entered the cottage.” Cray’s skin turned ashen. “None of this was here.”

  Della sucked in a sharp breath. “He was in the house with you?”

  “Evidently.” Cray hiked an impatient thumb toward the stairs. “Get her out of here.”

  Paul rushed Della down the stairs and out onto the porch. She scanned the faces of those clustered on her lawn but didn’t see anyone she didn’t recognize. Mrs. Renault and Madison looked worried. Jimmy was ticked, and Doc seemed baffled. From the driveway, Grant Deaver joined Madison and they walked up to the porch.

  “Don’t worry.” Madison clasped Della’s hand. “We’re going to catch this creep.”

  Her heart still racing, her legs like water, she nodded. “First, we have to identify him.”

  “He’s brazen,” Mrs. Renault said. “Unabashedly arrogant.”

  “Sure of himself, to hide in here with us and the police on scene. He’s trained. Rapid escalation. Intensive preplanning.” Clearly looking for more characteristics to analyze, Madison worried her lower lip with her teeth. “Grant, did you pick up on anything out back?”

  “No. No accelerants in the garage that should have intensified the planted explosives.” He frowned. “This guy clearly knew exactly what he was doing.”

  Grant had been studying the garage. That explained why Della hadn’t seen him or known he was here. The image of the baby bottle on her refrigerator shelf burned in her mind. “This isn’t case-related, Madison. It’s personal.”

  “Or he wants it to appear that way.”

  When briefed, Detective Cray agreed with Della. “Beech is going to share the test results on the knife in his possession. We’ll cross-match as soon as our testing is complete.” He rubbed at his neck. “What about your ex-husband, Della? If he blamed you for your son’s death, then maybe...”

  “I can’t see Jeff doing anything like this.”

  “Maybe he snapped.” Jimmy shrugged. “It happens.”

  “It does happen.” The detective motioned to one of his men. “Check out Jeff Jackson. I want to know where he’s been in the last six weeks and what he’s been up to.”

  Relief washed through Della. She honestly didn’t think Jeff would do any of this, but then she hadn’t thought he’d blame her for Danny’s death, either. She’d been wrong then, and she could be wrong now. He couldn’t be trusted, and she needed to know. Still, guilt for considering him a suspect grated at her. How could she take serious offense to him doubting her and then turn around and doubt him? Yet not doubting him would be foolish, and this was different. He wasn’t a couple of continents away, just a couple of states. It was possible. But surely not. Surely not probable. She looked at Paul to gauge his reaction.

  Guarded, closed, maybe even suspicious, he looked away. Surely he didn’t think Jeff had done this, and he had stood up for her, so he didn’t think she was guilty. So what had Paul so guarded and closed?

  Whatever it was, he wasn’t talking. And he continued not talking for the next two hours.

  It wasn’t until they were in his rental and on the way to pick up one for her that she summoned enough courage to ask, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Are you still in love with Jeff?” Paul spared her a glance, then focused on the road. “Is that why you haven’t furnished the cottage? Are you just marking time here until he makes peace with blaming you for Danny and comes to his senses?”

  Paul sounded angry. If she
were doing what he suggested, why would it make him angry? “Stop the car, Paul.”

  He pulled over in the Publix parking lot and stopped, then looked over at her and waited.

  “I loved my husband. I thought we’d grow old together,” she said. If she weren’t exhausted, she wouldn’t be saying all this. She knew it yet couldn’t seem to stop. “But love can wither and die. It can be something beautiful one day and something dark and ugly and awful the next. Betrayal can do that. I’ve lived it.”

  “But if Jeff is over that? What if he regrets what he did and how he handled it? He probably does, you know. He was injured and his son died in his care.”

  “If Jeff regretted anything, he’d say so.” She always said he’d never get ulcers because before a little thing could be a big one, he harped on it. He’d spit out anything and everything that went through his mind, right or wrong or indifferent. “He’d send me a picture of my son.” Her own had disappeared or been confiscated en route home from her deployment. “He hasn’t. He doesn’t regret anything—at least, not so far as I’m concerned.” He probably had plenty of regrets about Danny, but those he blamed her for, so it’d be regret she happened to be Danny’s mother.

  “I know he hasn’t, but that doesn’t mean he won’t. It doesn’t mean he—”

  “What is this really about?” She took off her sunglasses, saw her reflection in his and resented that the dark lenses shaded his eyes. She couldn’t read him with his eyes hidden. “It’s clear something is on your mind that goes beyond whether or not Jeff’s the stalker.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Which one?”

  “Is the reason you haven’t furnished the cottage that you’re marking time until Jeff comes back, tells you he still loves you and brings you home?”

  Early on, she’d envisioned that very scenario. But as the days grew into months and then years, it had faded. Each month that passed had also changed her reaction to him showing up at her door. “I am home.”

  ‘You’re not answering me.”

  “I thought I was pretty clear.”

  “Not to me.” Paul stilled, his grip tight on the steering wheel. “Do you still love him?”