by Marta Perry
And if it was more recent than that, then who? And why? She didn’t have answers, only questions.
* * *
THINKING ABOUT JASON and the silver dragon made her restless. To say nothing of those moments when she’d felt that current of desire flowing between her and Mac. Impossible, she reminded herself. She had no energy to spare for anything but the task at hand. And if she were in the mood for romance, it certainly wouldn’t be with someone like Mac Whiting—a cop down to his bones.
To her, cop meant Tom Reilley, with his rigid insistence that everything had to be done his way. He’d been like that even before her mother died, and he had only become worse. He’d done his duty by her, she supposed. Like Mac, he’d always do his duty. But it had been a cheerless thing with him, with no wiggle room for anyone who approached life differently.
Like Jason. Poor Jason had spent his brief life torn between his own instincts and his father’s expectations. Her jaw tightened so much that her teeth clenched.
As an adult, she’d been able to understand, at least a little, how difficult it must have been for him to deal with an angry adolescent girl. But his mistakes with Jason—those she couldn’t forgive.
Eventually she found herself clicking through late shows, unable to keep her interest focused on them long enough to follow a single monologue or interview through to its conclusion. She switched off and tossed the remote aside.
Maybe, if that had been a dragon’s shape scratched into the doorstep, Jason had done it. She couldn’t think of any reason why, but still...
Or someone else had put it there. Perhaps someone who conceived it as a warning.
Far-fetched, her logical mind insisted loudly. You’re getting as fanciful as Jason was. Chances were it was an accidental resemblance, only there because she imagined it, the way people saw a face in the moon.
The phone rang, startling her, and she glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. Who on earth would call her at this hour?
Most likely a wrong number, given how few people knew she was living here. Her friends would call or text on her cell. She picked up the landline phone.
“Is that Ms. Beaumont?” The voice was male and muffled by what sounded like country music and laughter in the background.
“Yes. Who is this, please?” she asked crisply.
“You wanted to know when Larry Foust came in to the Lamplight. He’s here now.” The caller hung up.
Kate stared at the phone for a moment. The bartender, she supposed. He and Nikki were the only ones who’d have reason to call—not that she’d expected it after what he’d said about Larry.
A few minutes later she stepped out into the chilly darkness, pulling the door closed behind her and checking the lock automatically. If this was someone’s idea of a joke, she was going to be seriously annoyed.
And speaking of annoyed, she hadn’t mentioned Larry Foust to Mac. If he heard of this private expedition, he wouldn’t be happy. Still, she’d never agreed to tell him everything. And she didn’t doubt that there were things he’d kept from her.
The streets were deserted when she drove toward the bar, and the ridges loomed darkly over the town. Only the clock tower on what she supposed was the town hall was brightly illuminated, its face declaring the hour.
The silence and solitude didn’t extend to the Lamplight, however. Apparently the night was young there, since there were still plenty of cars in the dimly lit parking area, and the orange-and-green neon signs glowed.
She pulled in, finding a space at the far end of the second row of vehicles. Pickups outnumbered cars by a wide margin, and when someone opened the door, country music spilled out into the night.
Kate glanced back at the sleeping town, quiet under the crescent moon. Every place had to have its equivalent of the Lamplight, most likely.
Near the door, she slowed her steps. She hadn’t really planned how she would approach Larry, and maybe she should have. If he knew she was Jason’s sister—well, she’d begun to think everyone in town knew it by now. She’d have to play it by ear, she supposed, but she never liked going into an interview unprepared.
The Lamplight lived up to Nikki’s implication that it was where the action was at night. Crowded and smoky, with a roar of talk, it stunned the senses for an instant after the dark stillness outside. The crowd seemed to be a mix of twentysomethings flirting with each other, a few older, lone drinkers and a couple of convivial clusters of men who looked as if this were a second home.
Kate worked her way through the crowd toward the bar. No sense in looking for Larry, since she didn’t know him by sight. She’d have to depend on Pete to point him out.
But when she reached the bar, Pete wasn’t there. A younger man sauntered over, wiping the bar as he came. “What’ll it be, honey? Beer?” He gave her a long, assessing look. “Or you one of the white wine crowd?”
“Neither. I’m looking for Pete. Is he in tonight?”
The bartender shook his head, turning away, obviously not interested in someone who didn’t plan to spend money. “Off.” He headed toward the end of the bar to someone who was beckoning.
“Pete works nights on the weekend,” a voice volunteered. She glanced to her right, and the speaker grinned. “Have a drink with me and my buddy instead, why don’t you?”
Late thirties, she’d guess, with a dark stubble he probably thought was sexy and the faded jeans and flannel shirt that seemed the wardrobe here. He leaned closer. “Pete’s an old married man, anyway. We’re more fun. I’m Mike, and this is Stan.”
Stan was a carbon copy of his friend, but he looked uncomfortable, as if picking up girls in bars were new to him.
On the slight possibility they might know the man she was looking for, she tried an encouraging smile. “Actually, I thought Pete might have some information for me.”
Odd, no matter how she considered it. If Pete hadn’t called her, who had? She felt sure the call had come from here—the background noise fit.
The man drew back slightly. “What kind of information?”
“I’m been trying to catch up with a friend of my brother’s. His name is Larry Foust. Do you know him, by any chance?”
Mike whatever-his-name-was shrugged. “Know who he is, yeah. Dropout, lives with his mama. Your brother doesn’t have much taste in friends.”
“Has he been in here tonight, do you know?”
He exchanged glances with his friend, who shook his head. “I don’t...” he began, and then seemed struck with a thought. “Come to think of it, I might have seen him going out a minute ago. He could still be in the parking lot. Let’s go have a look.”
She doubted his sincerity, but with her self-defense training, she was confident she could rebuff anything he might try. Plus, it was better than wandering around a noisy crowd looking for someone she couldn’t identify, although she suspected Mike was more interested in pursuing a hookup than being helpful.
“Okay, thanks.”
Elbowing their way back through the crowd, she and Mike reached the door and stepped outside. Kate sucked in a breath of cool, clean air. Her clothes probably already smelled of cigarette smoke.
“I don’t see anyone. If he did come out, he must have gone.”
“Maybe not.” Mike snaked a hand around her waist. “Let’s walk down to the end of the lot. Make sure he’s not in one of these cars.”
She sighed, detaching his arm. “Nice try. No, thanks.”
He shrugged, apparently not offended. “Hey, can’t blame me for trying. I was just telling Stan he should pick up a conversation with a woman. Poor guy just got the boot after seven years with the same woman. Then you walked up next to me. Thought I’d show him how it was done.”
“Nice of you.”
He didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm in her tone. “Well, hey, no hard feelin
gs?”
She couldn’t help smiling. “No hard feelings. Do you even know Larry Foust?”
“Oh, hey, yeah, I wasn’t lying about that. But I didn’t see him tonight. Sorry.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She nodded to the door. “Maybe you’d better get back to Stan before he loses his nerve entirely.”
Grinning, he went back inside.
Well, at least she hadn’t had to use her self-defense skills on him, but this looked to be a futile trip. If Pete hadn’t called her, who had? The more she thought about it, the odder it seemed.
Frowning, she started along the gravel lot toward her car. It was even darker at this end farthest from the pole light, and she fumbled in her bag for her key ring, intending to hit the unlock button so the lights would flash. The ring had slipped from its usual position in the upper pocket, and she fished in the bottom of the bag, exasperated.
Headlamps flared suddenly—but not hers. A dark vehicle swung out of a shadowy space at the end of the lot, its high beams striking her in the face. She put up her hand to shield her eyes, muttering imprecations against drivers who used their high beams to blind unwary pedestrians.
And suddenly it accelerated, the engine roaring, heading straight toward her. For a stunned second she didn’t move, unable to believe what was happening. Then she lunged to the side, feet scrambling for purchase on the loose gravel, heart thudding against her chest. She wasn’t going to make it—it would hit her—
She landed hard—hands and knees scraping gravel, but clear of the vehicle. Swinging around, she tried to focus on the car. If she could get a look at the license plate, she’d—
It was backing, accelerating again, swerving toward her. She was helpless, sprawled on the ground—
Her fingers closed on the smooth silver of the dragon charm. She clasped it, fumbled for the panic button on the key and pressed it.
Her horn began to blare, lights flashing. The vehicle stopped with a scream of brakes, a crashing of gears, and then it went spinning out of the lot, sending up a spray of gravel just as the bar door opened and several people looked out, probably wondering if their cars had been hit.
Kate slumped back on her elbow, wincing at the pain in her hands and knees, struggling to accept the truth. Someone had tried to run her down. Deliberately. But who? And why?
CHAPTER SEVEN
MAC TOOK ADVANTAGE of the empty streets to reach the Lamplight in record time, not that he expected to find anything too alarming. It wasn’t unusual to get a late-night call from the Lamplight, but that was generally on a Saturday night, not a weeknight. The caller hadn’t been making much sense. Still, he was there now.
He pulled into the parking lot, illuminating the scene with his high beams, flashers on. The lights showed him a cluster of figures grouped around something on the ground. Adrenaline pumped as he strode toward them.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
The crowd parted, revealing the figure in the center. With what felt like a kick in the chest, he realized it was Kate. She was sitting on the ground, a woman bending over her. The shock of wild bleached hair was enough for him to know her—Sheila Hileman, openhearted, generous, uneducated but shrewd as they came.
“How is she, Sheila?”
“She’ll do, Mac.” Sheila looked up from whatever she was doing to Kate’s hands. “Painful scrapes, but no bones broken.”
He squatted beside Kate, taking her hand and turning it palm up to shine his flashlight on it. Raw abrasions showed red in the light. “Maybe a doctor better have a look at this.”
Kate snatched her hand away. “I don’t need a doctor.”
The anger in her tone reassured him. “A doctor might think otherwise.”
She drew herself up with as much dignity as was possible for someone sitting on the ground. “Ms. Hileman took care of it. I just want to go home and wash up.”
“That’s right,” Sheila said encouragingly. “Get all this nasty gravel out of it. The owner ought to repave the whole lot, but catch him spending any money he doesn’t have to.”
“I’ll take you home in a minute,” he told Kate. “First, I want to know what happened.”
A babble of voices answered him.
He raised a hand and silence fell. “Sheila, what do you know about it?”
She stood, wiping her hands on tight jeans. “I saw her—Ms. Beaumont—come in a while ago. Looked like she was asking the bartender something. Then Mike here started talking to her, and they went out together. He came back after a couple of minutes, and then somebody near the door heard all the fuss out here—the car alarm, wheels spinning and all. We went out and...” She shrugged. “That’s all.”
He zeroed in on Mike Corliss. “Well, Mike?”
Mike’s ruddy face grew redder. “I was just... I just...”
“He was trying to pick me up,” Kate said. She made a move as if to stand. Mac grasped her arms and lifted her to her feet.
“You want me to think you came to the Lamplight to pick up men?” He lifted an eyebrow, and she glared at him.
“She wanted to find Larry Foust,” Mike volunteered. “So I... I said I thought...” He trailed off and stared at his feet.
“There’s no point in asking them anything else,” Kate said. “No one was out here when it happened. A car nearly ran me down.” She clamped her lips shut so decisively that he knew there was more to it.
“I caught a glimpse of the taillights, turning away from town,” Sheila said.
“Anyone see anything more of it? Or notice who came outside during that time?”
Silence and shaking heads. Naturally, no one had seen. That was always the way. Either people saw more than was there or they saw nothing.
“Anyone think of anything, call the station,” he ordered. He turned to Kate. “I’ll take you home.”
“I can drive myself.” She closed her palms and winced. “I’ll be fine.”
“No,” he said shortly.
“I’ll bring her car along,” Sheila volunteered. “Me and Alice are leaving now, anyway.” She grinned. “Don’t worry. We only had a beer each.”
He picked up the key ring, lying on the ground where Kate had been, and handed it to Sheila. “The cottage behind the B and B.”
She nodded, and he took a firm grasp on Kate’s arm. “Come on. I want a few words with you.”
“Can’t it wait?” But she went along with him to the squad car.
“No.” He helped her in and shut the door firmly. She was lucky he didn’t lock her in the backseat. After agreeing she’d tell him what she was doing, she’d gone off on her own. And what did Larry Foust have to do with anything?
Mac slid into the driver’s seat, turned and pulled out of the lot, with Sheila following in Kate’s car and her friend trailing along behind.
“Well?” she demanded.
“When we get to the cottage. I don’t want to be interrupted.”
She glared at him and then sat mute, her hands lying palm up in her lap.
Mac spent the few minutes’ drive trying to get a grip on himself. He was furious with Kate for putting herself at risk, and he was quite sure she hadn’t told him the whole story yet. But at the same time he knew that his anger had its roots in fear for her. The situation was spiraling out of his control, and that triggered all his alarms.
Reaching the cottage, they paused long enough to get the keys from Sheila. Standing in the spill of light from the car’s interior dome, he could plainly see Kate rubbing her fingers over and over the silver ornament on her key chain. Something important to her, clearly, and he wondered why.
Mac followed her inside, closed the door and swung to face her. “Why Larry Foust? And what else have you been keeping from me?”
Kate rubbed her forehead with the back of her ha
nd. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
He hardened his resolve against the pity that came close to swamping him. “No. But it can wait until you clean those scrapes completely. I have a first-aid kit in the cruiser. I’ll get it.”
When he returned with the kit, she was emerging from the bedroom, patting her hands with a small towel. She’d swapped her jeans for a pair of soft knit pants, which probably meant her knees were beat up, too.
“Sit down over here in the light.” He opened the kit. Somewhat to his surprise, she obeyed without argument.
He took her hand in his, checking to see that there were no tiny bits of gravel left to fester. “Larry Foust?” he said, squeezing some first-aid cream over the scrapes.
Kate hesitated, probably wondering how little she could get away with telling him. “According to Nikki, he was a friend of my brother’s. Or at least, someone she’d seen him talking to. Do you know anything about him?”
“He’s familiar enough,” he admitted, smoothing the cream over her palm with the lightest possible touch. Even so, she took a quick, indrawn breath when he went over the worst of the scrapes. “A local kid. Father deceased, totally spoiled by his mother, who thinks he can do no wrong. He dropped out of college after one semester and has been hanging around town ever since.”
“Have you suspected him of drug use?” She started to pull her hand away, but he held it firmly.
“You’d better have a sterile pad over that bad spot, at least for the night. Hold still.”
She conceded, and he opened the packet and held the sterile pad in place, securing it with tape. Only then did he return to her question. “Not hard drugs, no. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out he uses pot when he can get it.”
“I wondered, after Nikki mentioned seeing him with Jason, whether he might have something to do with the drugs. Jason had to get them from someone in town.”
He began working on her other hand. “If he’s a dealer, he must be the least successful one in the history of the world. He’s always hard up for money, always cadging drinks from people. I heard recently that his mother threatened to cut off his allowance if he didn’t get a job, but I doubt that she’d follow through.”