by Jenifer Ruff
“Really? Okay. Sure,” she’d agreed. “Where should we go?”
“I already picked a place out. It’s in Virginia. I used to go there when I was a kid. There’s a waterfall with a mind-blowing view.”
“Waterfall?” Beth had asked, still surprised he’d suggested a vacation. “Remember I showed you that article about that woman who slipped from the edge of a waterfall and fell to her death? Was that the same place?”
Danny took a gulp of beer. “Nah, that was somewhere in North Carolina. You remember that, huh?”
“Yes.” The story was too morbid to forget. Beth wasn’t a fan of heights, and she shuddered at the thought of tumbling to her death and smashing to bits on the rocks below. But it wasn’t often that Danny suggested they do anything together, aside from watching television. She wasn’t about to put down his idea even if it involved traipsing along the edge of a waterfall.
“Anyway, we’re going to hike up to the falls when we get there. It’s going to feel like we’re on top of the world. And . . . I’ve got a surprise for you.” He grinned.
“You do? What is it?”
“Can’t tell ya. But you’ll just have to trust me.”
Beth smiled. Everything about his out-of-the-blue suggestion was unusual. Danny hadn’t been romantic since they got married. He hadn’t paid much attention to her at all lately, other than to show his irritation over one thing or another. She might have been a little more suspicious if she hadn’t been so hopeful. “What about the new business you’ve been working on?” Our million dollar sure-thing. “Can you leave it for a few days?”
Over the past few months, Danny had been leaving town for a few days at a time. His new business venture was supposed to make them a lot of money. One million dollars was the figure he used. She’d asked, but he hadn’t shared any details. Beth had yet to see anything come of his travels. Just a bunch of hotel and meal expenses, but he seemed passionate about whatever it was, she had to give him that.
“Oh, yeah. It can wait a few days for me.” He downed the rest of his beer. “I’m closer than I’ve ever been. It’s just a short matter of time before it happens. Then it will be like hitting the jackpot. Guaranteed.” Grinning, he tossed the can toward the trash and missed.
Now, here they were, in Virginia on their supposed vacation. A nice dinner was likely to happen. That’s what people did on anniversary trips, although they probably used credit cards with their actual names on them. Lately, Danny never wanted to go out anywhere with her. Which was strange because when he came back from his recent business trips, she’d found receipts for some upscale restaurants. Not like super fancy, can’t-get-a-reservation types of places, but still a big step up from Bubba’s Take-out Barbecue. Well, tonight would be different. She’d go without him. She’d find a nice sit-down restaurant with waitstaff and cloth napkins and candles on tablecloths, the type of place where Agent Rivera might take Agent Heslin. She’d enjoy a good meal by herself.
After she killed the Smiths.
Studying her reflection in the mirror, she removed the studs and rings from her ears, setting them at the back of the sink until only one earring remained in each earlobe. She was ready.
She drove back to the Sonesta Hotel, her ground-zero, stakeout spot. She didn’t see the Smith’s Jeep. She parked facing the hotel entrance to catch them coming in, or to catch someone else from her list coming out. An hour went by. Boredom always made her crave a salty or sugary snack, but she had no food. She rotated her index finger from side to side, chewing on her cuticles. To pass the time, she called Danny to give him an update. He was probably laying around the room watching television and sleeping. What she really wanted was for him to bring her something to eat, which was impossible because she had their car. The truth—she was lonely and wouldn’t mind just hearing his voice. The call went to his voicemail.
“This mailbox is full and cannot accept additional messages.” She’d always been annoyed by the bossy, robotic woman who came with the phone service.
Beth sighed and returned to watching through the windshield. Where were the Smiths? According to the hotel’s computer—pathetic—almost anyone could hack into that system—they were still checked in. But what if they had left without checking out? What if they’d taken off without stopping at the Sonesta’s front desk like she and Danny had done?
Clasping her hands repeatedly, she watched the digital clock, counting the seconds until the minute changed. Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen . . .
Out came—what was his name—room 125—he was on her list. Horrigan? Yes—Steve Horrigan. He had no social media presence that she could find. She knew almost nothing about him. For all she knew, he was one of those guys who was living in a different decade technology wise.
She couldn’t just wait around for the Smiths any longer. Cursing them for eluding her too many times, but mostly because of their stupid happy faces and marital bliss—which she doubted was even real—she followed Horrigan’s black Ford pick-up out of the parking lot. The Smiths should stop acting so sappy, stop the irritating public displays of affection, and take a clue from couples like Agent Rivera and Heslin. Their love was evident in subtle glances, but they didn’t go out of their way to throw it in anyone’s face.
Tailing Horrigan to the edge of the city, annoying hunger pains pinged across her stomach like mini lightning bolts. When she passed a Bojangles, she considered forgetting about Horrigan and stopping for food. She managed to steel her resolve by thinking about the gross food they must serve in prison. She had a job to do if she didn’t want to find out more about prison slop first hand. From a street lined by woods, Horrigan pulled his truck onto a dirt road. So did Beth. Her car bounced in and out of ruts and mud puddles but she barely slowed down. He would see her following. She didn’t care. Her stomach growled. She needed to get it done.
At the end of the road, he parked in a cleared area large enough to hold a few cars. He got out and grabbed a tackle box and fishing pole from the back. He smiled and waved as he passed her window. Beth looked down at her legs, pretending not to see him. Better to let him march deeper into the woods.
She waited until he disappeared on a narrow path. When she got out of her car, the wind cut through her thin, silky blouse. She wrapped her arms around her body to ward off the chill. Wishing for a coat and something warm to eat—a hot chicken biscuit would be perfect—she hurried after him. The path ended in an open area near a river. She heard a cough, looked left, and saw Horrigan.
He set his tackle box down. “Can I help you?” He sounded amused, without a hint of fear.
A strong wind blew against her. She tucked her chin. “Why would I need your help?”
“You followed me here. And it don’t look like you came ready to fish.” One side of his mouth lifted into a smirk.
Okay, so she wasn’t the best follower, not like when she was stalking people online. Then she was great. She stepped closer, one hand inside her purse turning her gun around so she could pick it up and be ready to shoot. The gun refused to move. The damn muzzle was stuck on something. Had to be the hole in the inner lining, the one that occasionally ate her lipsticks and spare change, the reason she and Danny couldn’t find one of the car keys for months. Scowling, she kept her eyes on Horrigan but had to put both hands inside her purse to get the gun loose. “I think you know why I’m here, Steve. You saw me! You know and I know that it’s just a matter of time before you decide to tell someone.”
Horrigan leered. “What are you doing?”
The gun finally jerked free inside her bag. She kept it hidden.
“Okay. Whatever, lady. I think you’ve been drinking. But I’d like to know what you think I saw.” With his hands on his hips, he took a few steps in her direction. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell me what’s going on and why you’re here.”
A strong gust of wind howled past, fueling her anger. Her pulse thumped like a drum in her ears and throat. How dare he mock her and act like he had the upper
hand! The old Beth might have let him intimidate her, hunched her shoulders and hurried away, but the old Beth was gone, replaced by a stronger version who didn’t have to take his or anyone’s crap.
“This is what’s going on, Steve.” She yanked the gun out of her purse and curled her fingers around the grip.
His eyes bulged. He held up a hand and backed away. “Whoa, hold on there. Just lower that thing. No need for—”
“You going to try and outrun my bullets, or just stand there and tell me you really don’t know what I did?”
“I don’t know—honest to God—you have me mixed up with—”
“Like hell I do.” She pulled the trigger three times. He jerked as each bullet met his body. Beth’s arms shook with each shot, but she held tight to the gun.
With a vacant, shocked stare, Horrigan swayed in slow motion at the edge of the woods. Blood soaked his hands, squirting through his fingers as he clawed at his chest. His legs collapsed, and he slumped to the ground on his back, gurgling and groaning.
Beth dropped the gun. Steering clear of his streaming blood, she grabbed his feet. After a few dragging steps, his dirty boots slid off in her hands, and she toppled backward onto her bottom. “Damn it.” She scrambled up and wiped her hands on her pant legs, threw the boots into the woods and resumed pulling on smelly, damp, threadbare socks. Gross. She managed to drag his body a few yards into the trees and bushes, stopping twice to catch her breath. He was no longer groaning when she took his keys and rifled through pockets for his wallet. She grabbed his tackle box and fishing pole and threw them into the woods after him.
Her arms were limp, wiped out from shooting and dragging Horrigan’s heavy body. She straightened her clothes, damp with sweat, and scowled at the dark, dirt smears on her shirt and pants and the muddy area covering her butt.
Grabbing her gun off the ground, she hurried back to the cars, hope no one heard the gunshots, and threw everything from her car and glove compartment into Horrigan’s truck. It was time for a switch. With the rag and a bottled water from his floor, she wiped down every surface inside her own car, focusing on the steering wheel, the door handles, and the gear shift. She didn’t have a record, they wouldn’t find her fingerprints in the system, but Danny . . . he’d been convicted of several petty crimes. If they found his prints, he’d lead the authorities right to her. As she hurried through the work, her new mantra played in circles in her head: “I’m not going to jail, I’m not going to jail, I’m not going to jail . . .”
She backed the truck out, yanking the wheel left to face forward. Another pick-up rounded the corner, spewing dust in its wake. Really? Now? You’ve got to be kidding me. Her heart rate spiked as the vehicle drove straight toward her, filling up the one lane road. Her new mantra evolved into a frantic counting spell. With one hand, she put the vehicle in reverse, gripping the gun with the other, certain the approaching driver was there because he heard the gunshot.
The truck pulled up beside her, the driver’s side only a few feet away. Her fingers tightened around the gun in her lap. Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve . . . A middle-aged guy wearing a blue plaid flannel shirt and a ball cap lowered his window and stared at her.
She rolled her window down too, lifting the gun a few inches. Her heart thumped harder.
He leaned forward with a big smile on his face. “Fishin’?”
“Yep. I was.” She did her best to act natural, but her smile felt tight and forced, like it might crack. She closed her lips, so she wasn’t baring her teeth like a rabid animal.
The guy shut his engine off.
Crap! He was staying. She had to get out of there. But at least he wasn’t there for her.
“Any luck?” he asked.
This time her smile was the real thing, full of pride and satisfaction. “I caught exactly what I wanted to catch today.”
“Good for you. Hoping for the same.”
“Ha!” She revved the engine and sped away. It wasn’t luck, eliminating him.
That’s when it hit her. No! Oh, no! No! No!
Her breath caught, and her heart skipped a beat. Everything felt wrong from the pit forming in her stomach to the dizziness spiraling around her head. In her haste, she’d forgotten to write the number five on Horrigan’s forehead. Numbers were important, even the odd ones. Numbers brought order. Numbers were necessary. And, to make it worse, she hadn’t left messages for anyone.
Chapter Nineteen
Chris Roberts slowly reeled in his line, pulling slightly left, up, and left again, to get it unhooked from the twig it had snagged on. “Come on, Betsy. Come on, girl. There we go,” he whispered to himself. Once the line was free, he eased his way downstream, whistling, and cast from his new spot. He’d been standing next to the river for an hour, without getting a nibble.
The thirty-something blonde lady must have taken her luck with her when she left. She was a funny one. She had an edge about her, a nervous look, not what he expected to see on the face of anyone who had just spent time hanging out by the river. Strange that she was out there. She wasn’t dressed for the outdoors. He could only see her head, shoulders, and a bit of her torso. Her silky white top hadn’t fared well while she was fishing. Kind of looked like she’d had an unhappy spill in the sand, or a roll around in the bushes. Another poor office worker trying to snatch a break from a dismal cubicle and get some fresh air, like he used to do. He grinned. Or maybe she drove all the way here only to discover that nature is actually dirty, before scurrying back to the safety of her office’s four gray walls. He shook his head. Nah. Just before she left, her nervous look had been replaced with one of triumph. She’d be back for more.
He rolled his neck from side to side and reeled in his empty line again. Across the calm water, a small dark spot scurried about. A beaver. It climbed out of the water on the other side of the bank. Roberts smiled, content. There was no place he’d rather be, except maybe doing the same thing in Colorado, or Montana. It was the quiet hum of nature that appealed to him. The lull of the clear water streaming gently past, the whitecaps that arced over the boulders and rocks, the lack of artificial noise.
He set down his fishing gear and opened his thermos of herbal green tea. It was better hot, and in this weather, it would be tepid in no time. Winter was extending its icy grip into the fall season.
Back in the clearing, he had parked near another car. He would have heard it leave if the engine had started, so it was still there. Where was its owner? Might be nice to have someone to talk to for a bit.
He finished his tea and, with his hands inside his fleece lined pockets, stared across the river, taking a deep breath of the fresh, chilly air. He stepped back toward the cover of the woods to relieve himself. He gazed in through the trees, admiring the colorful fall foliage, until something caught his attention. The handle of a fishing pole stuck up through the brush. He chuckled. Odd—but not entirely unusual; wouldn’t be the first time a day with no fish got under a sportsman’s skin and—like an irritated golfer who missed a three-foot putt—he threw his equipment into the woods. The pole was a sturdy one. Was it salvageable? He ambled into the woods, toward the discarded piece of equipment. When he was close enough to grasp the pole, he caught a glimpse of something else.
Red liquid glistened across the bushes, dotting the leaves as if they were diseased. And then . . . he had to blink to make sure what he saw was real. He dropped the pole, and backed away in quick, stumbling steps. His hands flew to his chest. “Oh no. Holy mother….” A thin sweat broke out over his skin.
The dead man’s eyes had stared up at the gray sky, his expression frozen in horror. Roberts could barely think or breathe. Had the man moved? He didn’t think so but—Oh, God!—he wasn’t sure. You have to check! Roberts crept forward again, gripping the sides of his head. The man’s shirt was soaked in blood, a pool of it covered the ground beside him. Oh, he’s dead! He’s definitely dead! Roberts’ eyes darted around. His pulse thumped, rushing blood past his ears, louder than t
he river. He yanked his phone out of his shirt pocket. It slid out of his sweaty, shaky hands, flipped through the air, and landed in the blood.
“No!” He squeezed his eyes shut. Bile rose in his throat. He had to lean forward, resting his hands on his knees, and wait for the nausea to subside. The dead man’s face was etched in his brain, the gruesome expression and lifeless eyes staring at him from inside his mind.
He wanted to race back to the car and lock the doors. But he had to call for help. Tears sprang from his eyes as he grabbed his iPhone from the puddle of blood seeping from the dead man. Holding the phone away from himself, he ran back to his bag, where he had a rag. He cringed and gagged as he wiped the deep red liquid off his screen. A sudden noise came from the woods. He jerked around, heart racing. A squirrel scurried up a nearby tree trunk. Damn. If he hadn’t just peed, he surely would have wet himself. Muscles tight and tense, he scanned the area again. The quiet isolation of the river bank had become a source of terror.
Praying for God’s help, he pounded 911 into his phone. His fingers slipped on the numbers. He had to hit the back button and start over again. Come on, come on, come on!
“911. What is your emergency?”
“I just found a dead man. He’s near the river. Near the clearing when you turn off . . . off . . . I can’t even remember . . . where am I? . . . Fordham Street!”
“Your name, please.”
“I’m Chris Roberts.” His lips trembled. “I was fishing. That’s when I saw him. Jeez. He’s been shot. At least I think he’s been shot.” Roberts gathered his gear in one arm, dropped his empty thermos and almost tripped hurrying to pick it up. He flung his bag over his shoulder. With his new pole dragging across the ground behind him, he hurried toward the clearing where he’d left his car.
“Mr. Roberts, I’m sending someone to your location. You should hear the sirens in a few minutes. Is there anyone else in the vicinity?”
Roberts peered over his shoulder, scanning the river bank and the woods. He’d reached the clearing. “I don’t think so, but . . . there’s another car here.”