She paused, allowing her thoughts to coalesce before continuing. “I could barely stand up when I finally emerged. I spent a moment stamping circulation back into my legs. I kept my eyes away from the bodies on the other side of a counter. I knew they were dead.” Her voice broke, and Luc rubbed her back. The motion calmed her rising anxiety.
“What did you do next?” Jarvis asked.
“I probably watched way too many gangster movies, but his actions made me think the shooter was a hit man. That scared me, and I didn’t want to risk anyone knowing what I had seen before I talked to the marshals.”
Jarvis and Smith exchanged a glance. “Why the marshals and not the local police?”
She swallowed down the bitterness of her past, but forced herself to continue. “My father was a cop, the casino strip his last beat. He was killed responding to an assault in a back alley behind one of the casinos when I was sixteen.”
“Oh, Priscilla. I’m sorry.” Luc squeezed her shoulders, then returned to rubbing her back.
The rhythmic motion gave her the strength to continue. “Thank you. The killer, a low-life criminal working for one of the casino bosses, had been ‘instilling the importance of paying gambling debts’ to a patron and hadn’t liked the interruption. He only served eleven years because it wasn’t a premeditated murder. My dad was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Priscilla shuddered, remembering how awful it had been in the days and weeks after her father’s death. Her mother, never a strong woman, turned to the bottle, which exacerbated her mood swings. Without her father there to steady her mother, Priscilla had known it would be only a matter of time before she lost her mom too. But that was a story to share with Luc on another occasion.
She drew in a deep breath. “I called my father’s old partner, Abe Evers. Abe’s the one who contacted the marshals because of things he had heard about the three who were killed—rumors of their connection to the Russian mob. Abe whisked me away to a safe place. Then he contacted the FBI. After federal agents interviewed me, they called the marshals.”
“You left the scene of the crime immediately?” Smith queried.
“Yes. I was scared that the shooter would find me if I stuck around. Abe was the only person I could think of who could help me and keep me safe.” Priscilla did her best to recall her thought process on that night, but the endless questions about her actions ignited a slow burn inside her heart. “To be honest, it’s hard to remember why I did things. I only know what I did.” She uncapped her water bottle and took a sip.
“I didn’t mean to imply there was anything wrong in what you did.” The sincerity in Jarvis’s voice lessened the simmering annoyance over being challenged.
“In that moment, I was more concerned with evading the security cameras on my way out of the casino. I didn’t want to be caught on tape anywhere near the kitchen. I feared the shooter might hear about any potential witnesses and hunt the person down.”
She fought tears. “Like he is now.”
Jarvis’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at it. “It’s Mac.” He hit the accept button. “Mac? You’re on speaker with Dr. Devins, Smith, Luc and Priscilla.”
“We’re at the motel...room... Whitehurst.” Mac’s voice faded in and out.
“Mac? You’re breaking up. You’re at the motel where Rachel Whitehurst is staying?” Jarvis leaned in closer to the phone he’d placed on the table.
“Yes.” Mac’s voice came in crystal clear. “The FBI, along with our guys, are consulting with the local sheriff’s department. We’ve confirmed with the manager that Whitehurst is in room 223 on the upper level of the motel.”
“What’s the plan?” Smith called from his position slightly behind Dr. Devins.
“The other marshals are starting up the stairs to the room, with the sheriff’s men providing backup on the ground to ensure she doesn’t slip through our fingers.”
“Okay, keep us posted.” Jarvis reached for his phone when a loud noise boomed through the speaker. “Mac? Are you there? What’s happening?”
Silence.
Priscilla bit back a gasp, panic once again threatening to overwhelm her senses. With a steadying breath, she sent up a prayer. Please, dear God, let Mac be okay. Don’t let someone else die because of me.
* * *
Luc frowned at Priscilla’s pale face across from him at the small kitchen table. She kept picking up her spoon, then setting it down without taking a bite of the tomato soup he’d heated for supper. She had adamantly refused to lie down after the news of the motel explosion. Priscilla had paced the room in shock until they finally heard word from Mac thirty minutes later.
News that they had suffered only minor scratches from the bomb’s detonation brought color back to Priscilla’s face. Mac had said they would all return to the inn as soon as the FBI crime lab finished their initial investigation, but Luc worried this latest explosion might have pushed Priscilla over the edge.
Smith and Jarvis had been in conference in a bedroom with the door ajar. A new set of marshals stood guard outside the suite’s door and another pair roamed the inn’s perimeter.
Priscilla remained uncommunicative, her thoughts tucked deep inside. All attempts to draw her out had been met with an apologetic “I need some time to think.”
“Hey.” He reached across and touched her hand. “It will be okay.”
“Will it?” She snatched her hand away from his. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. Being in witness protection all these years hasn’t been too hard. I didn’t have any family left, giving me little temptation to contact anyone from my old life. While I’m sure Culvert knows about the witness protection program, there’s no indication he knew about me.”
“I know it’s been a difficult few days.” Luc remained seated at the table, torn between wanting to wrap his arms around Priscilla and keeping his distance.
She shoved back her chair and stood. “Do you?”
He opened his mouth to reply, but she didn’t give him a chance.
Her eyes flashed. “You know, this all started because you decided now would be a great time to walk back into my life.” The tone in her voice shocked him. “Just when did you find me, anyway?”
His heart thudded and his skin prickled. If he answered truthfully, he might sever the bridge they’d started building between them. If he hedged the truth, it would probably make her distrust his motives even more.
“I asked you a question.” The hard edge to her voice belied the tremor that shook her body.
His mother had instilled in him that telling the truth might mean temporary pain—like when he’d confessed to breaking her Dresden shepherdess—but it also brought inner peace. “Three months ago.”
Her jaw dropped. “Three months ago?”
At his nod, confusion flickered in her eyes. “Then why did you wait so long to approach me?”
Again, he chose the truth. “I was praying.”
“Praying?” Her brows furrowed as she parroted the word back to him.
“Yes.” He met her eyes, willing her to see his sincerity. “I didn’t know why you’d left. I had been searching for you. When I found you, I wasn’t sure how to proceed. So I prayed.”
“For three months, you’ve been praying for me.” She blinked back tears.
“Yes. I’ve been praying for you.” A knot in his own throat stopped the rest of what he wanted to say for a moment. He swallowed hard, and softly added, “I’ve been praying about what to do next.”
The front door opened, and Mac, Laura, Aldrich and Myers entered the room. Luc bit back a groan at the interruption.
“Mac!” Priscilla hugged the marshal as Smith and Jarvis came into the room. “I’m glad you’re okay.” She looked at the other three, who wore rumpled suits with dirt streaks and torn fabric.
“Just a few bumps, bruises and s
cratches.” Laura winced slightly as her husband came out of the other bedroom and embraced her.
“And the witness?” Luc inserted the question into the general greetings from the others.
“Whitehurst is dead, whether from the blast or not, we’re not sure. The medical examiner will have to sort that out.” Mac sank down onto the couch, weariness in every line.
The others grabbed bottled water and milled around the tiny kitchen, finding snacks to eat.
“Do you think she was responsible for getting Culvert out of the hospital?” Priscilla sat down next to Mac.
Luc edged closer, standing beside them to listen to their conversation.
“Culvert is taking care of loose ends.” Mac set his lips in a firm line.
“Any sign that Culvert came to the motel?” Priscilla asked.
“Not yet.” Mac’s phone rang, and he hit the speaker button. “Mac here. You’re on speaker.”
“Marshal MacIntire. It’s been a long time.” The man’s raspy voice filled the room and the steel behind it caused Luc’s stomach to clench.
Everyone crowded closer to Mac, all eyes on the phone sitting on the coffee table.
“Who is this?” Mac propped his elbows on his knees.
What might have passed for a chortle came over the phone’s speaker. “I can’t believe you would forget such an old friend.”
Mac stared at the phone as Laura slipped her cell from her pocket and hit the record button to capture the call. “I haven’t forgotten you, Mason Culvert. Calling to gloat over your handiwork?”
Luc put his hand on Priscilla’s shoulder. Why was Culvert calling Mac? And how did he get Mac’s cell number?
“I’ve never been one to gloat.”
“It’s only a matter of time before we find you again.” Mac’s voice held determination. “How did you get this number?”
Again that laugh, which held no humor. “It wasn’t hard.”
“Why don’t you turn yourself in?” Mac loosely clasped his hands together. If he was trying to project an unruffled demeanor, the tension lines around his mouth betrayed him.
“To you? I don’t think so.” Culvert’s voice sharpened. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“I didn’t kill Rachel.” Culvert sounded aggrieved.
“What?” Mac smirked. “You’re calling to report a crime, are you?”
“Just setting the record straight.”
“We have you dead to rights.” Mac’s voice dropped to a growl. “You’re cleaning house. You can’t stand the fact that we can put you away for a very long time. Better hope a death-penalty state doesn’t get to you first.”
“I wouldn’t hurt Rachel.”
“And why should I believe you?” Mac shot back.
“Because I’m not the only one with something to lose.”
Click.
SEVENTEEN
Priscilla rotated her shoulders, trying to ease the tension that had converted the muscles into rocks. Forty minutes ago, Myers, Aldrich and Laura had arrived back from the motel, but the marshals sent her and Luc to one of the bedrooms while they debriefed. With the door firmly closed, she couldn’t eavesdrop on their conversation, and being kept in the dark added to her jitters.
“I hope this gets wrapped up soon.” Luc quirked his lips into a smile. “My sister will kill me if I miss her birthday.”
She sank onto the love seat, grateful for the distraction. “Sister, huh? I don’t remember anything about your family.”
He joined her on the sofa. “My mother’s name is Joann, and my father’s is James. I’m the youngest of four. I have three older sisters. The eldest is Lucy, who married Paul Bonneville, and they have two adorable little kids. The second oldest is Elise, and she’s in South Africa as part of her international humanitarian work. Elise is also recently engaged to a wonderful South African named Zane Okiro.”
“And your youngest sister?”
“Octavia is only thirteen months older than me, and she teaches kindergarten. Not married or ‘even close,’ as she puts it.”
“Where do your parents live?” Removing her sneakers, she tucked her feet up underneath her legs.
“In a tiny little town called Clintwood in southwest Virginia near the Kentucky border.” Luc propped his feet on the small coffee table. “My father runs a small hobby farm that sells produce at farmers’ markets and area restaurants. He’s also been the town mayor for forever.”
“What about your mom?” Priscilla tried not to be jealous at the obvious affection Luc had for his family, evidenced by the warmth with which he spoke of them.
“My mother’s a surgeon in a regional medical center. She mostly stitches up cuts these days, but she travels all summer throughout Appalachia to the hamlets and towns to offer general medical care to residents who either can’t afford to see a doctor or don’t have access to one.”
“Wow, she sounds amazing.” A longing to be part of such a family filled her, and she closed her eyes to fight back tears. She hugged one of the throw pillows to center her thoughts. She couldn’t think about the future now, not with Culvert trying to kill her. But until Luc shared about his family, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed having one of her own.
Priscilla sighed. “I wish I knew what they were discussing out there.”
“Yeah, me too.” Luc held out his hand, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to slip hers inside his.
“What’s Mac’s background?” Luc laced his fingers through hers into a loose grip. “You seem really close to him.”
“I suppose I am.” Priscilla ignored the undercurrent of what might have been jealousy in Luc’s voice, not wanting to discuss his feelings or hers. Instead, she focused on his question. “That’s what happens when your life depends on another.”
“He doesn’t share much personal information.”
“I guess that’s to be expected in his line of work. He’s been my handler for three years, since I was moved to Virginia, but I still know very little about him outside the marshals.”
“Where were you before?”
“A small town in the Midwest.” She looked at him. “I can’t tell you more than that.”
Luc squeezed her fingers, and the reassurance that he understood gave her comfort. She hadn’t been able to be honest with anyone about her life in many years, so to share even these details with Luc filled her with contentment. “I’m not sure why I was moved. Mac just showed up one day and said it was time to pack my bags.”
“You had to change your name again?” Luc’s eyes held sympathy. “That must have been hard.”
“It was. Sometimes, they let you pick a name, and sometimes, you can keep your first or middle name. I chose to keep my first name, but had to learn a new last name and background details. Since I pretty much kept to myself anyway, it wasn’t that hard.” Priscilla wouldn’t mention the nights she’d cried herself to sleep because of the loneliness. In fact, she’d better shift the subject back to Mac before she started bawling on Luc’s shoulder.
Priscilla gazed down at their joined hands. “Anyway, all Mac ever told me was that he joined the marshals a decade ago after a stint in army intelligence.”
“One of the other marshals told me Mac was married.”
“Yes, although he doesn’t wear a wedding ring and rarely talks about his wife. I asked him about it once, and he said he needed to keep his private life separate from his work with the marshals.” She slanted a look at him. “You weren’t jealous, were you?”
“Of Mac? Nah.”
But despite his words to the contrary, she detected a hint of pink washing across his face.
However, before she could tease him further, Luc let go of her hand to point at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s close to six. Want to see if local ne
ws has anything on the explosion?”
“Sure.” Priscilla relaxed against the back of the sofa, very aware of Luc’s shoulders mere inches from her own.
He picked up the TV remote and clicked it on to a local station just beginning its six o’clock news program.
A perky blonde newscaster opened the broadcast. “Good evening. I’m Cassie Nobles. Thank you for choosing Action 8 News. Here’s today’s top story. An explosion rocked a Motel 6 just outside of Peebles, West Virginia, this morning, killing two and injuring several others.”
Two dead? Priscilla hadn’t heard about a second victim—just that Rachel Whitehurst had died in the blast.
On TV, footage of firefighters hosing down the smoldering remains of a structure played as the anchorwoman outlined what Priscilla already knew.
“Kent Malloy is on the scene. Kent, any further developments?” Nobles asked as the camera shifted to a live shot, bright lights illuminating the reporter as he did a stand-up with the charred building as a backdrop.
“The Fayette County Fire Department is investigating what caused the explosion. A source speculated to me off camera that the device was likely triggered remotely. As to who set the device or why, those questions have yet to be answered. FBI investigators are on site now, sifting through the debris for clues.”
“Have the victims been identified?” Nobles’s voice held just the right touch of concern to Priscilla’s ears.
“The FBI just released their names. John Evans, the manager, had worked for the motel for twenty years. The other victim, Rachel Whitehurst, rented the room where the bomb exploded. The FBI said Ms. Whitehurst worked at Fairfax Inova Hospital in Virginia. Fayette County Sheriff’s Department informed me only moments ago that Ms. Whitehurst was a person of interest in the escape of alleged hit man Mason Culvert, who’s been on the run since Monday.”
“Kent, did the sheriff’s department provide any further details about the Culvert case?” Nobles interjected from the studio.
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