by Sandra Brown
“I don’t know how to use that stove.”
“How hard can it be? You’ll figure it out. Don’t dawdle. I need you here now. I called Wes—”
“Why Wes?”
“As head of the city council, I thought he should know about this. Anyway, he’s already on his way. How soon can you get here?”
“Give me ten minutes.”
William hung up, with a smirk and a snuffle of self-satisfaction.
• • •
The bell above the door jingled when Dutch walked into the drugstore. The merry sound set his teeth on edge.
With a death grip on Cal Hawkins’s elbow, Dutch half-dragged him to the lunch counter and unceremoniously plunked him onto a stool, hoping the sudden motion would jar the cretin awake.
“Get him some coffee, please,” he said to William Ritt, whose cheerful smile was as annoying as that stupid bell above his door. “Make it black and strong. Same for me.”
“Coming up.” Ritt motioned toward the burbling coffeemaker.
Unsurprisingly, Hawkins had not been up and raring to go when Dutch arrived at his ramshackle house. Hawkins didn’t answer the knock, so Dutch let himself in. The place was so full of junk it was a fire hazard. It stank of backed-up plumbing and sour milk. He’d found Hawkins sleeping fully dressed in a bed that a mangy dog wouldn’t be caught dead in. He hauled him off it and propelled him through the house and out to his waiting Bronco.
During the drive downtown, he’d reiterated to Hawkins how vital it was that he pull himself together and get his sanding truck up the mountain. Even though Hawkins had responded to everything he’d said with a nod and a grunt, Dutch wasn’t convinced he was completely conscious.
And, as if dealing with Hawkins wasn’t bad enough, he had to make nice with the freaking FBI. It was his least favorite thing to do anytime, but it was going to be especially irksome after the night he’d had.
After dropping Wes at his house, he hadn’t gone straight to headquarters. It had been very late when he got there, and by way of greeting, the dispatcher had handed him dozens of call memos.
All were complaints he could do nothing about until the weather improved, like the frozen fountain in front of the bank building, a missing milk cow, and a tree branch that had broken off from the weight of the ice and snow. It had fallen onto the owner’s outdoor hot tub and cracked the cover.
And this was his problem, why?
Then there was a call from Mrs. Kramer, who had more money than God from Coca-Cola stock a wise great-grandfather had bought cheap. But you would never meet a meaner and more miserly old bat. She’d called to report a prowler in her front yard. Dutch reread the message as written down by his dispatcher. “Does this say Scott H.?”
“Yeah. The Hamer kid. She says he was strolling past her house like it was an evening in May. Up to no good, if you ask her.”
“Well, I didn’t ask,” Dutch had said, “and anyway she’s delusional. I was at the Hamers’ house. Scott was holed up in his room with the stereo blaring. Besides, Wes wouldn’t let him go out on a night like this.”
The dispatcher raised his bulky shoulders in a shrug and didn’t take his eyes off the John Wayne shoot-’em-up he was watching on a black-and-white TV. “What do you expect from a crackpot whose hobby is digging in trash cans?” Mrs. Kramer was known to pull on Rubbermaid gloves and scavenge through trash cans under cover of darkness. Go figure.
Dutch balled up the memo and shot it into the overflowing wastebasket. He put the other memos in his shirt pocket to deal with later, but only after Lilly was safely down from Cleary Peak. That was all he was interested in this morning—getting Cal Hawkins to drive his sanding truck up the mountain to rescue her.
True, it was still snowing like a son of a bitch. True, beneath the snow was a layer of ice an inch thick. Those were the objections that Hawkins was sober enough to raise, and they were valid. But it wouldn’t be as difficult as last night, when they’d had darkness working against them. At least that was what Dutch argued.
Catching his reflection in the mirror along the soda fountain’s back wall, he saw what the FBI agents would see—a loser, a burnout. He’d catnapped in his desk chair until dawn, his sleep frequently interrupted by disturbing thoughts of Lilly and what she might be doing at any given moment. What Ben Tierney was doing. What they were doing together.
Before leaving headquarters, he had washed up and shaved in the men’s restroom, using a dull razor, bar soap, and tepid water in a shallow basin. Had he known sooner that he was going to come under FBI scrutiny, he would have gone home to shower and put on a fresh uniform.
No help for it now.
“How’s that coffee coming?” he asked Ritt.
“Another minute or two. I’ll bring it over when it’s ready.”
Having exhausted reasons to delay the meeting, Dutch turned toward the booth where the two agents were waiting like vultures over a dying animal. The older one made a point of checking his wristwatch.
Asshole, Dutch thought. Did they think he was at their beck and call? Apparently so, gauging by the way they had mandated this meeting, giving him virtually no warning.
He’d just pulled up out front of Hawkins’s place when he got a call from Harris. The young policeman had sounded out of breath and was sputtering with excitement, but Dutch finally interpreted the message: meet the feebs at the drugstore. “In half an hour, he said.”
“Who said? That Special Agent Wise?”
“No,” Harris replied. “Older guy. Introduced himself as the SAC.”
Fuckin’ fabulous. “Where’d you run into them?”
“Uh, I don’t think I’m supposed to say. He told me not to mention names over the radio.”
“What’s he want to see me for?”
“That’s something else I’m not supposed to say over the radio.”
Dutch swore beneath his breath. What had happened to Harris, for chrissake? Had he been bewitched? “Well, if they’re at the drugstore when I get there, fine. But I’m not going to hang around waiting on them.”
“I don’t think you want to cross this guy, sir.”
Dutch hated having his authority challenged, especially by the officers on his force. “I don’t think he wants to cross me either.”
“No, sir,” Harris said. “But the SAC told me it was important that you meet this morning. And the way he said it, it was like . . . well, like he’d be good and pissed if you didn’t show. Just my opinion, sir.”
Now that Dutch had seen the SAC for himself, he shared Harris’s opinion. One glance and Dutch sized him up as a no-nonsense ball-breaker. He’d had plenty of experience with tight asses like him in the APD. He disliked the feeb instantly.
Without hurry, he ambled over to the booth and slid in across from them. “Morning.”
Wise made the introductions. “Police Chief Dutch Burton, this is SAC Kent Begley.”
Begley was brittle and brusque, even in the way he said, “Burton,” as they shook hands across the Formica. That alone revealed what he thought of Dutch. Begley had dismissed his importance even before they had exchanged a how-do-you-do. In the SAC’s mind, this was a formality, protocol he had to go through before elbowing out the dumb local cop.
The federal sons of bitches claimed not to feel that way about local law enforcement outfits. The company line was that they had the utmost respect for anyone wearing a badge. Bullshit. You might find an exception to the rule if you looked hard enough among the rank and file, but generally speaking, they thought they were the know-all, be-all. Period. End of story.
“We apologize for the short notice,” Wise said.
Wise had been introduced to Dutch shortly after he moved back to Cleary and assumed the job of chief. As they shook hands the first time, Wise had said he was relieved that someone with know-how would now be working on the missing persons cases. But Dutch had seen through the good manners. Wise had only been humoring him and playing politics.
Ritt delivere
d three cups of coffee. Begley ignored his. Wise opened a packet of sweetener. Dutch took a sip from his cup before asking, “What’s the urgency?”
“You mean besides five missing women?” Begley said.
He was like an industrial-strength abrasive scouring Dutch’s raw nerve endings. Dutch wanted to hit him. Instead he locked gazes with the senior agent, and each telegraphed his disdain for the other.
Wise coughed lightly behind his fist and pushed up his slipping eyeglasses. “Sir, I’m certain Chief Burton didn’t mean to diminish the importance of finding the missing persons.”
“This weather has temporarily suspended my investigation.”
“Which amounts to what?” Begley asked.
Ever the diplomat, Wise quickly amended Begley’s question. “Perhaps you could bring us up to date on your investigation, Chief Burton.”
Dutch was hanging on to his patience by a thread, but the sooner he answered their questions, the sooner he could get on his way. “Since I first learned of Millicent Gunn’s disappearance, I’ve had every spare man I could recruit—from my department, the state police, county sheriff’s office, and a goodly number of volunteers—combing the area.
“But the terrain around here makes it slow going, especially since I ordered them not to leave a twig unturned. Yesterday, when the storm moved in, I was forced to call off the search. We’re hamstrung as long as this weather keeps up. And I don’t have to tell you what it’ll do to evidence.”
As he gestured toward the front of the building, he saw Wes Hamer and Marilee Ritt approaching the entrance from opposite directions, reaching the door at the same time. Wes held it open for her, then quickly followed her in. They were chuckling over the snow that clung to their clothing. Standing just inside the door, they stamped their feet to shake the snow off their boots.
Wes removed his hat and gloves. Marilee pulled a cap from her head, and he laughed when static electricity made her hair stand on end. The tip of her nose was red, but Dutch was struck by how pretty and animated she looked this morning.
William called to her, and she hurriedly joined him behind the soda fountain. Wes glanced toward the booth where Dutch sat with the FBI agents. He didn’t seem surprised to see him there with them. Ritt, in his self-cast role as town busybody, had probably called Wes to inform him of the meeting.
Last night he and Wes had exchanged some harsh words and parted angry at each other. After Dutch’s crack about Wes and women, Wes had shoved open the passenger door of the Bronco and stepped out. “You can’t afford to piss me off, Dutch. Not when I’m about the only friend and ally you’ve got left.” He’d slammed the door before stamping off into the maelstrom of snow.
Now they acknowledged each other with a curt nod, then Dutch returned his attention to Wise and Begley.
“I spoke with Mr. and Mrs. Gunn last evening,” he continued. He didn’t tell them that Millicent’s parents had sought him out, not the other way around. He was glad he had even this to report. It made him appear on top of the case, proactive.
“I updated them on our canvass of the people that Millicent had contact with on the day she disappeared, first at the high school, later at work. We had compiled a comprehensive list but couldn’t get around to interviewing everyone before this storm hit. I have a small department and limited personnel. I operate on a shoestring budget.” Because his excuses had begun to sound like whining, he stopped and took another sip of coffee.
He glanced toward the soda fountain. Hawkins sat with his shoulders hunched, holding his coffee cup between his hands as though both were required to keep it steady. Wes was holding court for Ritt and Marilee. He was talking softly, but he had their rapt attention. Dutch wondered what he was saying that was so bloody captivating.
Shifting his attention back to business, he addressed Wise. “Did you learn anything from reading Millicent’s diary?”
Let them share the hot seat, he thought. They were on this case, same as he was. With all the resources at their disposal, they hadn’t solved it either.
“An entry or two snagged my curiosity,” Wise replied. He added another packet of sweetener to his coffee and idly stirred it. “Chances are they’re insignificant insofar as her disappearance goes.”
“Insignificant?” Dutch scoffed. “If it was insignificant, you wouldn’t be here. SAC Begley sure as hell wouldn’t be. What got your curiosity up?”
Wise glanced at Begley. Begley continued to stare at Dutch without speaking. Wise cleared his throat and looked at Dutch again, peering at him through his large lenses. “Do you know a man named Ben Tierney?”
• • •
Tierney woke up with a start.
He’d been in a deep and dreamless sleep one second. The next he was wide awake, sensors tingling as though he’d been shocked with a cattle prod.
Instinctively he pushed off the blankets and made to sit up. A battery of pains assaulted him, causing him to gasp, his eyes to tear. He was assailed by dizziness. He remained still, taking light, shallow breaths, until the pain receded to a tolerable level and he regained some equilibrium, then cautiously lowered his feet to the floor and sat up.
Lilly was already up, probably in the bathroom.
Although the room was dark, he knew it must be after dawn. He tried the lamp on the end table, and it came on. The cabin still had electricity. However, it was so cold he was shivering. Apparently the propane had run out during the night. First order of the day was to build a fire.
Ordinarily, he would have acted on that immediately. This morning, however, merely sitting upright had seemed an insurmountable task. His muscles were sore, his joints stiff from sleeping all night in one position—the only position the sofa allowed. Even the expansion of his rib cage when he breathed was painful.
Lifting his coat and sweater, he examined his torso. The entire left side was the color of eggplant. Gingerly, he felt along each rib. He didn’t think any were broken, but he wouldn’t swear to it. It couldn’t hurt any worse if they were. Luckily he didn’t have a punctured organ, or if he did, it was leaking slowly. In any case, he hadn’t bled to death during the night.
His head wound had left spots of blood on the pillowcase, but it wasn’t a substantial amount. No more shooting pains through his skull, just a dull headache and the recurring dizziness, which he could control if he didn’t move too suddenly.
Fortunately he wasn’t as nauseous as he’d been last night. In fact, he was hungry, which he took as a positive sign. The thought of coffee made his mouth water. He would ration enough of their water reserve to brew them one cup each.
He glanced toward the closed door of the bedroom. Lilly was taking her time in the bathroom, and it had to be even colder in there than it was here. What was she doing that could possibly take this long? A delicate question, and not one you posed to a woman.
Hell of a thing, being trapped in this cabin with her. Hell of a thing.
Easing himself off the sofa, he hobbled to the window. The wind was still blowing, though not as hard as the night before. That was the only improvement. Snow was falling in such abundance it had begun to build up against vertical surfaces. The ground cover was at least knee-deep, he guessed. They wouldn’t be getting off the mountain today. He’d hated like hell making those trips to the shed, but it was a good thing he had. They would need the extra firewood.
He let the drape fall back over the window, crossed to the bedroom door, and knocked softly. “Lilly?” He put his ear to the wood and listened but detected no movement or sound.
Something isn’t right.
He didn’t just sense it, he knew it. He knew it as positively as he knew that his feet were cold and that his head had begun to hurt again, probably because of his rising blood pressure.
He knocked on the door again, louder this time. “Lilly?” He pushed the door open and looked in. She wasn’t in the bedroom. The bathroom door was closed. Quickly he went to it and knocked so hard it hurt his cold knuckles. “Lilly?” When
he didn’t get an immediate answer, he opened the door.
The bathroom was empty.
Alarmed, he spun around but came to a staggering halt when he saw her standing behind the bedroom door, where she must have been hiding when he came in.
Fuck!
The contents of his backpack lay scattered on the floor at her feet.
And in her hands, aimed directly at him, was his own pistol.
CHAPTER
16
HE TOOK A STEP TOWARD HER.
“Stay there or I’ll shoot you.”
He indicated the items on the floor. “I can explain all that. But not while you’re pointing a gun at me.” He advanced another step.
“Stop, or I will shoot you.”
“Lilly, put down the gun,” he said with infuriating calmness. “You’re not going to shoot me. At least not intentionally.”
“I swear to God I will.”
Her trembling hands were wrapped around the gun the way Dutch had taught her. Over her objections, he had insisted she learn how to fire a pistol. He said he’d made enemies of criminals who might come looking for him once they were released from their incarceration, for which he was largely responsible. He’d taken her to the firing range and coached her until he was satisfied that she could protect herself in a crisis situation.
The lessons had been more for his peace of mind than for hers. She couldn’t conceive of ever having to put them to the test. She certainly never thought they would be tested on Ben Tierney.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“You know who I am.”
“I only thought I did,” she said gruffly.
“Every male above the age of twelve carries some kind of firearm in this part of the country.”
“True. A pistol in a hiker’s backpack isn’t cause for alarm.”
“Then explain why you’re pointing it at me.”
“You know why, Tierney. You’re not stupid. But I believe I have been.”
So much of what he’d said and done over the past eighteen hours had struck her as curious but in no way frightening. Combined with what she had discovered in his backpack, that perception had dramatically changed.