THIS PERFECT STRANGER

by Barbara Ankrum

  The sound of the front door opening made her nearly drop the tape recorder. She fumbled it, but caught it before it bit the desk. Maggie froze, listening. Someone—make that two someones—were coming inside the house. They were arguing.

  She ran to the office door, but realized it was too late. They were coming this way. Fast.

  Scanning the room, she looked for a place to hide. The closet! She crossed the room in four steps and jerked on the door. Damn! She'd locked it!

  The voices were getting closer.

  Oh, God!

  Maggie rushed back to the desk and shoved the desk chair out of the way, ducking into the kneehole just as the office door opened. She held her breath and braced herself flush against the inside of the desk.

  Laird stalked into the room, banging the door against the wall behind him. "Dusette is bluffing," he told the other man.

  "You want to take that chance? I'm telling you, Laird, these guys aren't guys you want to mess with. Leon Bridger makes Butch Capwell look like a choirboy. They could hurt us. They could hurt us badly."

  Maggie frowned. Butch Capwell? And what men were they talking about? The men who'd beaten Cain? Maybe they weren't gone after all. Her fingers tightened anxiously around the tape recorder, and she noticed she was still holding it.

  Laird swore foully and she heard the clink of crystal against glass as he poured himself something to drink. "I'm not giving them another dime. This was the price we agreed on. They did the job, I paid them."

  "You're a fool then," the other man said.

  Maggie recognized his voice then. It was Gene Fielding.

  "Do you think this will be the end of it?" Laird asked.

  "They'll keep coming back for more if we give in to their demands now. Let them go to the sheriff. Who do you think will believe four ex-cons? No one will believe I paid them to hit Brent, or have MacCallister jumped. They can talk until they're blue. That drifter is in so deep he won't see the night sky for another fifty years."

  Maggie's eyes widened.

  "I'm finished with this, Laird. You hear me?" Gene said. "I'm out. This has gone too far. First Ben. Now Brent and this drifter. Who's next? Where will it stop?"

  "You're in just as deep as I aim and don't forget it, Gene. Don't even think about jumping ship on me, or so help me I'll find a way to make you sorry."

  "Threats won't work anymore. You can't implicate me without implicating yourself. I'm personally two hundred grand in debt over this Musselshell deal and I don't give a damn. I'll gladly give up my house, what little honor I have left and whatever else it takes to be out of this whole damned mess. Because I don't want any more part of it. You've gone too far. I never signed on for murder."

  "You pathetic whiner," Laird sneered. "What did you think? That this was some playground game? You don't get the team you want so you run home? Well, guess what, Gene? I'm half a mil into this game and so are my partners. If I don't come up with the land we need they're going to plant me in some field somewhere. So don't tell me about honor or mortgage payments. You're not going anywhere. If you think they can't plant you in that same field, you're sadly mistaken!"

  Something crashed and shattered against the desk next to her ear. A frightened gasp escaped her mouth before she could clap her hand over it. Dead silence descended on the room. Maggie's eyes widened and she held her breath, waiting.

  Oh, God. She'd done it now.

  Footsteps moved slowly around to her side of the desk. Oh, no. Please.

  The desk chair jerked out of place and Laird's face appeared in the kneehole. "Maggie." His nostrils flared in anger. "Really, you should have knocked."

  * * *

  It had started to rain. A slow, soaking drizzle that slicked the roads and made driving perilous. Greg Janeson didn't let that slow him down. He tore down the country highway like he'd been driving Indy cars his whole life. Cain was impressed.

  But up ahead, the flashing red lights of a patrol car and ambulance had a line of cars backed up twenty deep. There had been an accident. A car was on its roof smack dab in the middle of the road and traffic was at a standstill.

  Cain swore. "Go around," he told Greg.

  "I can't go around. There are ditches on either side."

  Cain pounded the back of the seat with his fists.

  "It should clear up any minute," Greg assured him. A cop with flares was standing dead center on the road. Nobody was going anywhere for a long time.

  "We don't have a minute," Cain said, jerking open the handle on the passenger door. "I'm going."

  "On foot?" Judd demanded. "How far is it?"

  "Half a mile down the next turn off. Meet me there when you get out of this."

  "I think not," Greg said, throwing the car into park. "Judd, meet us there. I'm going to go back him up. He's liable to do something crazy." He jerked the car door open and took off after Cain.

  "Well, hell," Judd muttered, glancing at the mess up ahead, imagining his fifty-four-year body doing a mile at a dead run. Then again, he thought, why not?

  He got out and hit the remote lock on the keys and took off after the others. He'd waited a long time for the chance to stand behind his son. There was, he decided, no time like the present.

  * * *

  Laird jerked Maggie out from under the desk and yanked her toward the center of the room. "Look what I found," he told Gene, dragging her up against him.

  "Ah, Maggie." Gene gave a miserable shake of his head. "What the hell have you done?"

  "That's a question you should be answering, isn't it?" she said, ignoring the hammering of her heart. "In front of a jury."

  Laird gave a humorless chuckle and jerked her arm up behind her until she gasped in pain. "Not in this lifetime, sweetheart. And I believe breaking and entering is still a crime in this state. What did you think you'd find here, Maggie? A smoking gun maybe? A dead body or two?"

  "I found exactly what I expected to find. A man whose ambition has gotten the better of him."

  "Laird—" Gene warned.

  "So … you got yourself an earful, did you?" Laird said to her. "That's really a shame."

  She just glared at him, fighting the stinging in her eyes. How on God's green earth she was going to get out of this now? She could feel Gene's stare burning into her and almost hear the gears turning in Laird's brain as he contemplated what to do with her now.

  She'd blown it. She'd taken a chance and she'd blown her chance to help Cain and to save herself. He was going to have to kill her now, too. What else could he do? He certainly couldn't risk letting her tell what she'd overheard. She glanced at Gene. He looked like a man who'd just swallowed a hook and was contemplating pulling it back out.

  "I saw the model," she told him, stopping him dead in his tracks. He glared at her.

  "A landing strip?" she said. "That's what this was all about? That's why Ben had to die? That's why Cain is in jail now for maybe the rest of his life? So you could land planes here?"

  A slow smile tugged at Laird's mouth. "Ben was a necessary casualty. His own weakness is what killed him. Nobody put that noose around his neck."

  "You didn't have to, did you? You put him in the ground long before he could do it himself." Maggie shrugged against his painful hold on her. "He never hurt you, Laird. He never lifted one hand against anyone but himself. And this…" She gestured with a jerk of her head around the room. "This is all about a piece of land? You killed him for dirt? That was all his life was worth to you?"

  "I didn't kill him," he said tightly.

  "You pushed him and pushed him until he broke."

  "He broke because he was weak. I did you a favor."

  She jerked against his hands at that, wanting to spit in his face. He wrenched her arm again until she curled toward it in pain.

  "Dammit, Laird," Gene said, "let her go."

  "And what? What would you have me do, Gene? Let her go to Winston?"

  "It'll be her word against ours."

  "He's right," Maggie said.
"You're not afraid of one little woman are you, Laird?"

  He put his mouth right beside her ear. His breath smelled like whiskey and felt hot against her skin. "You've been a lot of trouble, Maggie. But this time you've gone too far."

  "So … what? You gonna kill me the way you did Brent? Was he too much trouble, too? That's what you do when people get in your way, isn't it? You just … remove them from the equation. Or, like Cain, you set them up to take the fall for you."

  "Oh, your new husband walked into that one on his own. I just opened the door. And Brent? Well, if we hadn't caught him having a little cozy talk with you in town we might never have known about his little attack of conscience. He just couldn't leave it alone. Just like you."

  She felt dizzy and sick, remembering Brent and that day in the street. How frightened he'd looked. He'd tried to warn her.

  "See, the way I see it," Laird hypothesized, "I came home from dinner and heard a prowler. I got my gun and—" He shrugged. "See? It's all very legal."

  Laird started dragging her toward the door.

  "No," Gene said, blocking his way.

  Laird shoved him aside and Maggie reached out for his sleeve. "Is this what you want? For Ruth? For your kids?"

  Sweat was beading above Gene's lip. "Let her go, Laird."

  "Get the hell out of my way, Gene." He shouldered past him, only to have the lawyer move in front of him again, shaking now.

  "No, dammit, this has gone too far. I'm not going to let you do this."

  Laird stopped and regarded his attorney. "Yeah?" Then, his fist shot out and he coldcocked the man with a sickening smack of bone and flesh before he could react. Gene's head slammed back against the door frame and his eyelids fluttered. He slid down the casing like hot candledip and landed, unconscious, at their feet.

  A shocked breath jangled out of her. He dragged her backward, wrenching open a little box on the table near the desk. Inside was a little forty-five caliber gun that fit neatly in his left hand. He was going to kill her. Of course he was going to kill her. And she had no one to rely on but herself.

  Laird dragged her into the hallway with an arm around her waist and another still holding her aching right arm up behind her. She tried to kick at him, but he evaded her every attempt.

  An animal-like sound of rage tore from her throat and she stumbled along down the hallway beside him. He fitted the gun against her side and said, "Don't make me do it here, Maggie. It would be so messy."

  She stopped struggling. Think. Think! She couldn't let him get her out the door. He dragged her toward the foyer.

  "You just had to stick your nose in it," he muttered through clenched teeth. "You couldn't give up."

  Maggie scratched at his hold on her but it did no good. "People knew I was coming here tonight. They'll figure it out, Laird. If you hurt me, they'll know it was you."

  He shoved the gun harder against her ribs. "Shut up."

  They approached the front door and he rearranged her in his arms to reach for the elegant brass knob. But a violent bang reverberated against the thick slab of wood as he touched the handle. Wide-eyed, Laird stared at it, frozen for a heartbeat before it exploded open and smacked them backward.

  Together, they sprawled on the slate floor. She heard the gun fall, too, and saw the shadow of the man who'd kicked the door in stumble into the room.

  Cain!

  He was on Laird before the rancher could defend himself, dragging him up and off of Maggie. He slugged Laird hard in the jaw, sending him flying backward against the hallway table.

  The table splintered under the assault. Laird rolled to avoid Cain, who threw himself at him again. This time, it was Laird whose fist connected, coming up hard under Cain's already damaged jaw. Cain landed backward on the splintered wood, stunned for a moment.

  Maggie screamed his name as Laird moved in on him. Blinking, Cain rolled to the side before Laird's foot could connect with his ribs, Cain kicked Laird's legs out from under him and the other man went down like a felled ponderosa. Cain rolled away, reaching for the gun a few feet away.

  Still on her knees, Maggie saw it too, and crawled for it. Her hand closed around it just as Laird was reaching for the back of Cain's jacket to haul him backward.

  "Don't move, Laird," she told him. Her arms were shaking and the gun tip wavered wildly.

  The sound of the men's labored breathing filled the suddenly quiet foyer. Laird eased back from Cain and wiped the back of one hand across his mouth. "You won't shoot me," he said, watching her. "Look at you. You're shaking. You don't have the nerve."

  She blinked. Oh, she was tempted. So tempted.

  With his eyes on Donnelly, Cain crawled over to her and put his hand on the gun. "Give me the gun, Maggie."

  She shook her head. Cain couldn't be anywhere near the gun. "No."

  He insisted, tightening his hand around it. "Give me the goddamned gun, Maggie." He pried it out of her hands and pointed it at Laird whose expression flattened now with something she'd never seen on him before. Fear.

  "I'm not shaking," Cain said, moving toward the rancher. "Do I look scared to you, Donnelly?"

  "Cain—" Maggie warned, struggling to her feet. "I'm calling the sheriff."

  "Call him," Laird blustered. "I'll have you both arrested for breaking and entering. You'll both be behind bars before you can—"

  Cain's lawyer, Greg Janeson, stumbled into the foyer, breathing hard, and he braced his hand against the doorway. He swore colorfully. But Cain kept moving toward Laird, who'd plastered himself against the wall, watching him come.

  "Don't bother to call," he told Maggie. "He's not gonna live long enough to press charges."

  Laird's face went a couple of shades paler as the reality of his situation began to sink in.

  "How's it feel, Donnelly? Being outgunned. Watching your life pass before you as you realize someone's gonna end it for you?"

  Laird blinked, and sent a pleading look at Janeson. "They … they b-broke into my … house. This man is a murderer."

  Cain smiled. "That's right, Laird. I am. I've killed before. And you know what they say inside? 'First time's hard time. Second time's my time.'" He pressed the gun up against Donnelly's temple. Both men were sweating profusely.

  "Cain—don't—" Maggie pleaded. She pulled the tape recorder from her pocket. "Look, I tape recorded them talking. They admitted everything."

  "Inadmissible," Cain said, shifting the gun to fit just underneath Laird's jaw.

  Greg took a step toward him. "Cain, for crissakes, give me the gun. We'll get a search warrant. They won't get away with this."

  But Maggie could see the hard muscles of Cain's arm tighten as he contemplated the justice found in the federal judicial system. Grim resolve slicked his skin with sweat. He leaned closer to Donnelly. "Maybe this is how Brent felt before he died, you think?" he said in a low voice. "Wondering how many breaths he had left? Did that make you feel powerful, Laird? To control the minutes in a man's life? Or how about the hours? The years like you tried to do to mine? That make you feel like a real man?"

  "I did what it took. Just like you," Laird said.

  "That's right," Cain said, forcing Laird's head back with the gun. "Just like me."

  "So what are you made of, MacCallister? You have the guts to pull that trigger a second time? Go ahead then. Do it. Go on. Shoot me."

  "Cain, please—" Maggie begged, moving next to him. "Think about what you're throwing away."

  "What are you waiting for?" Donnelly taunted. "Do it. Do it, damn you!"

  Cain's finger tightened on the trigger. Judd stumbled through the door, red-faced and breathing like a blown racehorse. It only took him a heartbeat to realize what his son was about to do. His horrified glance went from Maggie to Greg then back to Cain. "No, Cain. Give me the gun. Do you hear me? Give me the gun."

  Cain's mouth twisted and he shook his head.

  "You're not a cold-blooded killer." Judd took a desperate step toward him. "Don't you let him tell you
different. You hear me? You're worth ten of that piece of slime."

  Cain swallowed thickly and Maggie dared hope Judd's words were getting through.

  Judd went on. "I know you don't give a damn how I feel, so don't do it for me. Do it for her. Do it for, Maggie."

  Long seconds ticked away. Finally, Cain took a breath and lifted the gun away from Donnelly's head. He handed Judd the gun.

  Maggie wasn't sure her legs would hold her, but she got to her feet and walked to Cain. She put her hand on his shoulder and urged him up and away from Laird. Greg pulled out his cell phone and dialed the sheriff's office.

  Cain looked down at her and started to say something, but at that moment Gene Fielding staggered down the hallway, rubbing his jaw and taking in the situation. He rolled his eyes and pressed his back against the wall with a low curse. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen, Maggie," he said. "You have to know I didn't."

  "But it did, didn't it?" she asked. "Ben's still dead. And so is Brent."

  He closed his eyes as Judd ordered him to get over beside Donnelly. She knew he was thinking about his wife, Ruth, and their two children. But she couldn't work up an ounce of sympathy. They'd nearly succeeded in destroying them all.

  Cain turned and left her standing there, walking outside the front door. Judd watched him go and said, "Go after him, Maggie. He needs you."

  She wasn't so sure.

  Cain was on the stoop, leaning against the pillar that supported the porch. Plunging his fingers into his hair, he shoved it back from his face and looked up at the night sky with a growl of frustration.

  "Cain—"

  "I almost pulled that trigger," he said when she touched his sleeve. "Another second and I would've killed him."

  "But you didn't. It's over now, Cain. Please let it be over."

  His eyes filled and he looked away from her. "Yeah. It's over. I'm sorry, Maggie. Hell, I never should've come here."

  She turned him toward her. "Don't say that. They'll drop the charges now. We can prove you didn't kill Brent."