Deadline (Love Inspired Suspense)

by Maggie K. Black

  Jack was squeezed into the seat beside her. When she’d left the backseat down for Harry, she hadn’t realized Jack would end up bunched between the seat and the dashboard. “You know, you can put the seat back. I’m sure Harry can move.”

  “Thanks. I’m fine.” His eyes darted up to the rearview mirror for the tenth time since they’d left her driveway.

  She looked but saw nothing except the blackness of the empty, unlit road. “What are you looking for?”

  “Your brother told me he thought someone followed him after he left us at the docks. But thanks to the weather, all he really saw were headlights.”

  Her throat tightened. “And why didn’t he tell me that?”

  “He didn’t want you to worry. He said you worry too much as it is.”

  Maybe so. But still. The wreaths and ribbons of the crash memorial rose into view. How many times had she passed this spot in the past dozen years? Hundreds? Thousands? How many more until it no longer made her heart twist in her chest?

  “Your brother told me all about the accident too.” Jack’s voice cut into her thoughts. “I’m guessing the press was all over it for months. Must’ve been hard.”

  There was a gentleness to his voice she wasn’t expecting.

  “Reporters used to stake out our home, the hospital, the high school, all while we were still waiting to find out if Benji was going to make it.” She shrugged. “A kid was dead and they were looking for someone to blame. Some blamed the truck driver. A lot more blamed Benji, especially because he and Chris weren’t wearing helmets. The worst was when some current-affairs television crew went after my father’s business. Dad was a mechanic and serviced a lot of snowmobiles. They harassed all his clients, trying to determine if any had accidents because of faulty maintenance. It was a total muckraking. But rumors were enough to scare some people off using him again, especially nonislanders. His business never really recovered.”

  “That’s terrible. I’m really sorry.” Jack’s hand hovered in the air above her shoulder for a moment, as if he was debating whether or not to give it a squeeze. But instead he dropped it back down to his side, which left her feeling more disappointed than she’d have expected.

  She turned off the main road onto the long, winding driveway to McCarthy’s farm. The farmhouse was old, with peeling paint and a detached double garage behind it that had seen better days. The lights were off on the main floor. But one lone light flickered faintly in an upstairs window.

  Jack unbuckled his seat belt. “It doesn’t look like anyone is home.”

  “Nah.” She undid hers, as well. “He’s here—he’s just stingy about using electricity.”

  Harry growled softly. Guess he wasn’t all that happy to be home. Jack turned around in his seat and ran his hand over the dog’s neck. “It’s okay, boy.”

  A shadow moved past the upstairs window, and then a hooded figure stepped up to the glass.

  She gasped.

  Jack spun forward. “What is it?”

  With one hand she reached down for something to hold onto and steady herself. With the other, she pointed up toward the window. An indistinguishable gray shape moved through the upstairs room. The light went out and the house went dark.

  It was only then that she realized she’d actually grabbed Jack’s arm, just like she might have grabbed onto Benji’s.

  “What’s wrong?” Jack stroked his thumb gently along hers. She imagined he’d intended it as a reassuring gesture, but it was enough to send sparks shooting through her skin.

  She pulled away. “This might sound crazy, but I thought that for a second McCarthy was wearing a hood.”

  SEVEN

  The dog was still growling. The sound was unnerving and seemed to be getting louder by the second. Jack exhaled slowly. What if the person who had trailed Benji’s truck to the farm earlier had been the Raincoat Killer? What if he’d mistakenly thought this might be where Benji and Meg lived, and had come back later looking for them? Unlikely? Yes. Impossible? Not by a long shot. What some people might consider a mildly paranoid way of assembling the facts was just a natural line of thought for someone in his profession. But there was no reason to tell her that.

  “No,” he said carefully, “it doesn’t sound crazy. An old man, alone in his bedroom in the evening? He could easily have been wearing a hooded bathrobe, or had a blanket over his head.”

  Her shoulders straightened and determination filled her eyes again. “Come on.” She opened her door. “Let’s go.”

  Jack climbed out of the passenger seat, then held the door open for Harry. “Come on, boy, let’s go.” The dog crouched lower. His growl deepened. Meg was already halfway to the porch. Okay, then. Jack left the door open and strode after her.

  “Mr. McCarthy!” Meg rapped hard on the faded front door. “It’s Meg Duff. I’ve brought your dog back.” No answer.

  “Not the friendliest fellow, is he?” Jack reached past her and knocked firmly, using the three hard raps that he found people understood as “I’m a professional, and I mean business.” They waited. There was creaking, which sounded like someone trying to tiptoe down a very old flight of stairs, followed by the thud of something falling over. He cupped his hands to the window and peered inside. He couldn’t see anything. “Mr. McCarthy!” He raised his voice toward the house. “My name is Jack Brooks. We apologize for coming at such a late hour....” He glanced at his watch. It had barely gone nine. Oh well, who knew what time the curmudgeon went to bed? “We’d be happy to just leave your dog wherever is convenient for you—” if they could get the agitated dog to stop growling and climb out of the car “—and leave you in peace. Unfortunately he doesn’t have a collar or leash, so we can’t tie him to the railing.”

  Still no answer. Jack looked at Meg. His voice dropped. “Do you think there’s something wrong?”

  “Honestly?” She snorted. “Probably not. He’s a miserable man who called the police out of spite, but I find it easy to believe he doesn’t really want his dog back.” Footsteps shuffled from inside the house, but still the door remained stubbornly unanswered. “I honestly think he gets a kick out of inconveniencing people, like making them wait makes him feel important. When we dropped by to pay for his broken fence, we heard him shuffling around inside for a good fifteen minutes before he finally wandered out to his workshop and acted all surprised to see us there. Still, I can understand some of the sourness. It must be lonely out here, all by himself. You can’t help feeling sorry for him.”

  Can’t you? Jack’s eyes ran over the soft shadows that traced their way along Meg’s shoulders. Did that kind of compassion come naturally to her? Or was it born from weeks of pacing hospital hallways? “What do you want to do?”

  “Oh, I’m in no hurry to leave. Not after he called the cops on my brother.”

  There was the clatter of the back door slamming. Meg rolled her eyes, but the look in them was more pity than frustration. “Come on. Let’s head around back and talk to him. He’ll probably be puttering around his workshop, pretending to be doing something important. One way or the other, it’ll get settled.”

  Jack followed. The detached garage was a solid concrete block. The carport door was open slightly, leaving a gap of just a few inches at the bottom. A faint yellow light shone from underneath. Had that been on when they arrived?

  A shadow moved out from behind the house and disappeared through a doorway at the back of the garage. The door remained open behind him.

  They followed. A heavy key chain hung from the knob. They entered a narrow room separated from the main garage by a dividing wall. A workbench ran down one side. The walls hung heavy with gardening implements and two full sets of tools. Light trickled through a doorway in the back, which Jack guessed led into the main garage.

  His eyes ran over the meticulously kept space. Everyone cares about something. It�
��s just a matter of figuring out what.

  Meg knocked on the doorframe. “Hello?”

  If only more people remembered to treat each other with the courtesy she did.

  “Mr. McCarthy!” Meg cupped her hands around her mouth. “Are you in here?” She walked into the workshop behind Jack. The back of her hand slipped ever so slightly against his, as though she was fighting the urge to take it. “Something feels wrong,” she whispered.

  “What does?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just, he’s inconvenienced us. He’s made us wait. He dragged us out here. Fine. He’s made his point. But now it’s getting—”

  A burst of barking filled the air. The door slammed shut behind them. The keys turned in the lock. Then the room went black.

  Jack pulled on the door, shaking it until the knob rattled. It wouldn’t budge. “Looks like we’re locked in. We’re just going to have to walk through the garage and go out through the car door.”

  He forced his voice to stay calm, which was hard to do with Harry still barking furiously outside. One hand slid up the wall until he found a light switch. He flicked it up, but the room stayed dark. “And the power’s off.” So, what was that glow coming from the other part of the garage?

  There was a flicker of light behind him as Meg turned on her cell phone. “I can’t get a signal. But that’s pretty typical in this part of the island.” Her voice was level, with only the faintest quiver giving her anxiety away. Her hand slid onto Jack’s arm. He squeezed it for a long moment, feeling her pulse racing through her wrist.

  Okay, Lord. She’s terrified. And I could really use some help keeping my head right now.

  There was the rattle of the garage door closing. No! Jack rushed toward the disappearing light, the room growing darker before his eyes. Then the dim light shining from the main garage disappeared too. His hand felt for the doorway—

  His shins smacked hard against something on the floor. He pitched forward, nearly landing on top of it. A fallen stepladder. He heard the garage door hit the floor, with a metallic clank that echoed through the concrete space. Now it sounded as though both exits had been closed and locked.

  Something creaked in the darkness above him.

  “Stay back. There’s something else here.” Or someone.

  He dug in his pocket for his cell phone and came up empty. Must’ve left it in the car. A thin beam from Meg’s phone flickered over his shoulder. Jack stepped back as he saw a pair of battered work boots swing through the air toward them. Lord, have mercy. He slid his hand onto Meg’s and helped her guide the phone’s beam upward, up the battered boots and frail legs.

  McCarthy’s dead body was hanging from the ceiling.

  EIGHT

  The old man’s body was suspended from a beam, a crude noose around his neck. Jack’s heart stopped beating as the air he was breathing froze in his chest. Hanged. The reporter stood there for a moment, paralyzed. But then he heard a pain-filled gasp slip from Meg’s throat and felt her weight shift as her legs began to give way.

  Jack pressed both of his heels firmly into the floor. No, Jack. You’re not going to get overwhelmed by this. She needs you to be strong.

  Meg’s phone clattered to the floor. He reached for her, gently pulling her into the comfort of a firm and supportive embrace. She fell into his chest and he held her there. His right hand slid down to the curve of her back, his fingers spread along her waist. The other hand brushed against the soft skin at the nape of her neck and curled through her hair. “It’s okay.” His voice brushed against her ear. “I’ve got you.” She turned her head toward him. He tasted the salt of her tears. “We’re going to get out of here. You and me. Okay?”

  “He... McCarthy...” Her voice disappeared into a sob. “Who would do such a thing?”

  The barking outside turned into a low, threatening snarl. Meg’s fingers crept around Jack’s neck, pulling him closer still. Their hug deepened. And then she pushed back gently. He let her go. Her phone was on the floor near McCarthy’s truck, its thin beam illuminating the bare concrete room. Meg picked it up and shone the light on the sliding garage door. Jack yanked the handle. Then he threw his weight into it. It wouldn’t budge. They were all out of exits.

  Jack eyed the truck. “We’re going to have to bust our way out of here, and I think our best chance is to drive through the garage door. One good hit with the truck and it should fly open.”

  If the killer was still out there, they’d at least have a big hunk of steel between them and him. The truck’s driver’s-side door was unlocked. Judging by the key chain they’d seen dangling outside the workshop door, there was probably no use searching the old man’s pockets for keys. Hopefully, though, there’d be a spare key somewhere in the truck.

  Jack climbed in first. He yanked open the glove compartment, felt around and then looked under the car mat. Nothing. He glanced in the backseat and came up with another toolbox.

  Meg climbed in beside him. “Just yank out the starter and I’ll hot-wire it.”

  “You serious?”

  “Is there a wrench?”

  Jack flung the toolbox lid open. “There is. You sure you can do this?”

  “My father was a mechanic, and my brother loses his keys with amazing regularity. Move over and hold the light.”

  Within moments the starter lay in pieces in her hand. Jack watched as her fingers danced over the wires. The engine roared. “Ready?” Jack nodded, then braced his hands on the dashboard and breathed a prayer for their safety. Meg put the truck in reverse. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “Here we go.”

  The truck surged backward, hitting the garage door with such force it came off the rails and flew through the air behind them. Night sky filled the rearview mirror. Meg hit the brakes. Jack scanned from the driveway all the way to the tree line for any trace of movement. But all he could see was Meg’s car sitting—seemingly untouched—exactly where they’d left it. The dark, damp air around them was silent. Even the barking had stopped. He couldn’t see where Harry had gone.

  “That was amazing what you just did,” he said. “You impress me to no end. Do you have a signal yet? We should call the police.”

  Meg didn’t answer. Her head didn’t even turn. Then he noticed just how tightly her fingers were clenching the steering wheel. She stared straight through the gaping hole that once was McCarthy’s garage door as if transfixed by the swaying body, illuminated by the truck’s headlights.

  The rope had been strung around the old man’s neck. The stepladder Jack had tripped over lay at his feet. Again, questions filled the reporter’s mind, pushing him to think rationally. His journalistic instincts buzzed. Examine the scene, Jack. What do you see? Bruising on the victim’s body. Heavy bruising on his forehead. Okay, any other evidence? No footprints. No sign of a break-in. Nothing to indicate a struggle. Although how does that fit any of the facts?

  “They didn’t just kill him, they strung him up.” Her teeth chattered. “Nobody here would do this to him.... I’m not saying he didn’t have enemies. But they might grumble about him, or take him to court, or maybe even threaten to take a swing at him. But no one would...no one would...”

  Her eyes glazed over. He knew this look. Sometimes when people were terrified they closed up like a steel trap, as if trying to shut themselves away from whatever had just scared them witless.

  “Meg, look at me,” he said gently but firmly. “Look at me and not at him.” He reached for her hand and gently tried to pull it from the steering wheel. “Come on, we’re going to go back to your car, and I’m going to call the police.” She was going into shock, and probably couldn’t even hear him.

  She grabbed her mouth as a muffled scream slipped through her fingers. In an instant, Jack saw why. The dead body turned slowly as it swayed. There was a piece of paper taped to McCarthy’s back with
something written across the back in large block letters. MEG.

  NINE

  Anger flashed in the recesses of Jack’s heart as the desire for justice burned through him like a flame. Who did something like this? What kind of monster would tape her name on the back of a corpse?

  Tears coursed from Meg’s eyes. Jack leapt out of the truck, ran around to her side of the truck and opened the driver’s-side door.

  “Come on, hon. Let’s get you out of here.” He slid his left arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders. Then he lifted her gently off the seat, cradling her in his arms. Her fingers slid slowly from the steering wheel, but her body stayed so stiff he’d have thought she was frozen. There was the same lost look in her eyes that he’d seen in the face of crime victims and witnesses far too many times before. Help her, Lord. She’s shutting down. I can’t reach inside and settle her terrified heart, Lord, but You can. Help her. Help me help her.

  He carried her around to the front of the house and sat carefully on the front steps, holding her against him. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.” He pressed her hand against his chest. “Meg? Can you feel my heartbeat?” Considering how hard it was thudding, he wouldn’t be surprised if she could even hear it. “Focus on counting the beats. Okay? Just that. One. Two. One. Two.” Her breath came hard and fast on his throat. His fingers stroked her back, from the base of her skull down to the gentle curve of her lower back. “Now you need to calm your breathing. I know it’s hard. Just focus on my breath, slow and steady. Breathe along with me.”

  Slowly, her fists unclenched. Then her hands ran up around his neck, holding him to her like a lifeline; the simple act tugged at his heart, pulling on desires he’d never let himself feel before. He wanted to protect her. Help her. Be strong for her. Keep her safe. He closed his eyes, feeling her breath on his face, and her lips just inches away from his own.