Before the Storm

by Leslie Tentler

  He also needed to confide in someone. Releasing a breath, he clasped the back of his neck. “Sorry if I’m irritable. There’s just something going on with Samantha. Last night was more than just some random burglary. It seemed personal. Her car tires were slashed, too. She won’t talk about it, and I need to find out what kind of trouble she’s in.”

  Mark watched as the burly maintenance man known as Big Cal slid a new glass panel into the window frame in the apartment’s single bedroom. In the small foyer, the hotel’s security tech worked at installing a state-of-the-art alarm system. If it came to it, Mark realized he would be willing to have one of his staff keep guard in the parking lot.

  Was he overreacting? Thinking back to the previous evening, he didn’t believe so.

  “I’ve got to go to the truck to get some tools,” Big Cal said as he passed Mark in the doorway. “Be right back, Mr. St. Clair.”

  Mark nodded. Alone now, he placed his hands inside his pockets and looked around the bedroom. It was sparse and unremarkable in decor, with a basic striped comforter on the bed that could have been purchased at any discount department store. There was also a rather worn bureau. Its drawers remained open, and the intruder had dumped some of its contents—T-shirts and shorts, underwear—onto the floor. Mark noted that on its top, there were no photos or knickknacks on display, things he might have expected in a woman’s bedroom.

  Stepping closer, he picked up the dropped clothing and then peered inside the open drawers. A small jewelry box was located in the top one amid the remaining garments. Brushing aside the guilt he felt about snooping, Mark extracted the box and opened it. But it held only a couple of pairs of earrings and a cracked, conch-shell cameo on a tarnished chain. The locket looked old and inexpensive.

  A check under the bed and inside the closet registered nothing else of interest. He closed the closet door just as Big Cal returned with a toolbox and sealant gun.

  “I’ll have this taken care of in no time,” the large man said. “I talked to Eli in the foyer. He wants to wire the system into the windows, too. Anyone tries coming in that way again, they won’t get far. Give us another forty-five minutes, and this place’ll be locked up tighter than a clam with lockjaw.”

  “Thanks, Cal.” Mark went into the living room. Disregarding the mess, it appeared as sterile and impersonal as Samantha’s bedroom. In fact, the apartment reminded him of one of the town’s beachside rental condos that were furnished with only the bare necessities. He bent to pick up the items dumped from the entertainment center, but halted when he noticed Carter backing from the hall closet between the living area and kitchen.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Just looking around,” Carter replied casually.

  “Well, don’t.”

  Carter lowered his voice, although it was unlikely anyone could hear him over the high-pitched whine of the tech’s drill coming from the foyer. “I thought that was what we were here for. Don’t tell me you weren’t making out like one of those CSI shows in the bedroom.”

  The truth was, Carter had beaten him to the closet. It was where he had been headed next.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Not so far.” Carter went back to sifting through the fallen clothing and other items that had apparently been dumped onto the floor from the upper shelf. Mark walked into the kitchen and flipped through a stack of mail on the counter, but all he found were bills for electricity, water, cable and car insurance. There wasn’t so much as a personal letter or postcard in the stack. Unlike his own home, the front of the refrigerator was a blank slate—no magnets holding photographs, no reminders of dental appointments or Emily’s therapy sessions.

  Mark sighed as he studied the nice-looking, copper cookware hanging from an overhead rack. He’d been trying to rationalize that he was rummaging through Samantha’s things for her own good. How could he protect her if she wouldn’t reveal the source of the threat? But deep down, he knew this invasion of privacy was way out of line.

  “Well, I did find something.”

  He turned at Carter’s voice. His brother held a risqué pair of women’s shoes. Made of some kind of clear plastic, their stiletto heels appeared about six inches high. They were completely out of place with Samantha’s wardrobe.

  Carter waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “If I were you, I’d ask her to wear these on your next date.”

  The surprising find made Mark feel even guiltier, as did the image of Samantha wearing them that popped into his head. Everyone had his or her little kinks and accoutrements when it came to their sexual behavior. He recalled an X-rated, black satin teddy Shelley wore that had done things for him, as well as a silk blindfold and vanilla-scented massage oil they’d kept hidden in a drawer. Mark felt his face heat.

  “That’s not the kind of thing we’re looking for, and you know it. Put those back.”

  Samantha and Mercer lounged on the bungalow’s covered porch, out of the intense heat of the afternoon sun. After a poolside lunch, they’d returned to put Emily to bed for a nap. Mercer sat in one of the rocking chairs while Samantha swayed gently in the swing that just last night she had shared with Mark. She thought of their passionate kiss. If she’d only known that a short time afterward, her life would begin a death spiral.

  She’d done her best to hide her anxiety from Mercer, to act normally, but her insides were churning and her mind spinning for some solution to grab on to. If she ended up attempting an escape, going on the run again, there was no choice—she’d simply have to leave everything behind. Her business, her few belongings, even her car. Samantha Marsh would also have to end, since that cover had been blown. Without a social security number or even a driver’s license, finding legitimate work would be impossible. Twisting her hands in her lap, her throat tight, she wondered again how much Lenny would want in exchange for his silence. There was some cash in her bank account, but not much. And after financing the café, she doubted a financial institution would make her another loan.

  Besides, in the glaring light of day, she again faced the likelihood that paying him would only kick off a vicious pattern. He would come back repeatedly, wanting more.

  “What’re you thinking about, Sam?” Mercer broke the silence. “You’re so quiet, and you barely touched your food at lunch. Your head isn’t still hurting, is it?”

  “I’m fine,” she lied. “Just tired.”

  “I’m not surprised. I still can’t believe what happened to you last night.” Mercer took a sip from a sweating can of diet soda. “You’re holding up much better than I would. Of course, I can’t seem to handle much of anything these days.”

  Samantha looked at her. Last night, Mark had mentioned Mercer was upset about something. But whatever was wrong, she wouldn’t discuss it with him.

  “Mark said he ran into you outside the reception,” she mentioned carefully. “He said he thought you’d been crying.”

  For several long moments, Mercer gazed out toward the band of sea grass that whipped in the ocean breeze. “There’s a guy. A man, actually. He’s in Atlanta. We were seeing each other while I was living there. He wants me to come back.”

  Mercer had never mentioned a relationship before. Talking about Mercer’s problem was preferable to thinking about her own, infinitely more dire, situation, so she asked, “What do you want to do?”

  “It’s not that simple.” Her eyebrows gathered in pensively. “It isn’t just about me. There’s Mark and Emily to consider. I quit my job and moved back here after the accident. They needed my help.”

  “You’ve been here for two years. I’m sure Mark would want you to do what’s best for you.”

  “The truth is, I don’t think Mark or anyone in my family would be thrilled about Jonathan. No one knows about him. Mom would probably have a good old-fashioned conniption fit.” Mercer smiled faintly at her own remark, then swung her long hair back behind her.

  “It’s sort of a May-December romance,” she confided.

  �
�How May-December?”

  “Jonathan was my college professor. He’s forty-five.”

  “Oh,” Samantha said, surprised by the substantial age difference. She knew Mercer was twenty-six.

  “You don’t approve, either.”

  “I’m not judging,” she assured her. “Believe me, I’d be the last one to do that. Mercer, do you love him? Because if you do, that’s all that should matter.”

  Mercer appeared pensive. Pulling her tanned legs up into the chair, she wrapped her arms around her shins.

  “I do care for him,” she admitted. “At first, we kept telling ourselves it was just a fling. I felt so rebellious, even naughty, being with an older man. And the sex…I’m not…I mean, I wasn’t that experienced. But it was really good.”

  She continued despite the attractive flush that crept onto her cheeks. “Jonathan’s smart, obviously, and charming. He’s also one of the kindest men I’ve ever known. By the way, he didn’t ask me out until after I’d graduated. I contacted him for a job reference, and it sort of started from there.”

  “He sounds wonderful, actually.”

  “Things started getting more serious right before Mark and Shelley’s car accident. Jonathan asked me to move in with him. But I was having trouble taking that step.” She shrugged thoughtfully. “Maybe it was the age difference. That and worrying about what my family would think. His first wife died, and he’s been a widower for a long time now. He also has a son who’s only a year younger than me and who clearly doesn’t approve. God, I’m going on and on, aren’t I?”

  “Not at all,” Samantha said. Mercer had been a friend to her, and she wanted to help her, even if it was only lending an ear.

  “I was trying to decide what to do when the accident happened. Shelley’s death made the decision for me. It also made it easy to run away. Since coming back home, I’ve been to Atlanta a half-dozen times to see him—long weekends where we stay in bed the whole time. I tell my family I’m going to visit friends from college.”

  She rubbed her hands over her bare thighs, a wistfulness in her eyes. “Jonathan called me last night. We argued about what I should do. He says he can’t get over me, and he wants me to tell my family about him. He wants to come here to meet them properly instead of sneaking around behind their backs.”

  “What do you want?”

  She chewed her lip. “I honestly don’t know. To be with him, I guess. Maybe I just have cold feet.”

  The phone rang inside the house. Excusing herself, Mercer went inside to answer it. Samantha leaned her head against the swing’s back and closed her eyes. The afternoon’s warmth soaked into her bones. She needed to remember this place, absorb it into her memory so she had something to hold on to if she made the decision to run. Samantha thought of the way she’d felt falling asleep in Mark’s arms, in his bed. He represented a security she’d never had, an ideal of what her life might have been like if she hadn’t been born Trina Grissom and ended up where she did.

  She’d slept poorly last night and must have dozed off, because she woke to the squawking of gulls. Samantha glimpsed the portly man who stood on one of the sand dunes nearest the bungalow’s property. He wore baggy bathing trunks and a flowered Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to reveal his bulging, hairy belly. A pair of binoculars hung around his thick neck. Although the floppy sunhat put his face in shadow, Samantha felt her heart beat harder inside her chest. Lenny. He smiled, more of a grinning leer, and he used two fingers of his right hand to point at his own eyes. Then he pointed back to her.

  I’m watching you.

  Lenny traveled down the dune and out of sight. The swing rocked as Samantha stood, her knees wobbly. He was shadowing her, just like he’d said. Her eyes scoured the tourists who walked past, but Lenny had disappeared into the crowd.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “I found it slipped under the rear gate this morning. Hand delivered, no postmark and no return address. Someone knew what they were doing. They threw a towel over the security camera.” Cyril O’Keefe laid the manila envelope on the desk in front of his boss. He stood with beefy arms folded over his barrel chest like a sentinel awaiting instructions.

  Blowing a stream of smoke through his nostrils, Red Leary balanced his cigarette on the ashtray’s edge, then opened the package’s clasp. A thin stack of photos slid out. He looked them over, one by one. A little older, different hair, different body even—but he had to admit their subject bore a striking resemblance to Trina Grissom. A handwritten note had also been tucked inside the envelope.

  How much is she worth?

  Based on the building in the photos’ background—a pink stucco two-story bordered by stubby palmettos—he figured they had been taken somewhere along the coastal Southeast, or possibly even Southern California. Whoever had sent them made sure nothing captured by the lens gave away the location. Care had been used in avoiding any signage or license plates on the cars in the parking lot.

  Red picked up the top photo in the stack for a closer look. In it, the dark-haired maybe Trina stood next to a convertible sports car. She was talking to the female driver—an attractive, busty, honey-blonde who looked as though she would be at home in an Ivy League sorority house. He flipped the photo over, searching for the mark of a camera shop where the film might have been processed. There was none. They were probably printed off a computer. He hated technology.

  “You really think it’s her after all this time?” Cyril asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “What do you think, moron?” Red snapped. “We wait for whoever left these to contact us. Right now, he’s fishing. He’s seeing how bad we still want her.”

  “You do still want her? The money still stands?”

  “You can bet this asshole’s going to want more.”

  With an irritable release of breath, Red shoved the photos back into the envelope and tossed it onto the credenza. He retrieved the still-burning cigarette, flicked the ashes from its end and took another deep drag, thinking of his baby brother. Devin, with his pretty-boy face and head full of rocks. He could almost see his chiseled features and shock of Black Irish hair. Even from the grave, Devin was giving Red an ulcer. The kid had been nothing but a pain in the ass since the day he was born. Red had handed him the Blue Iris to run, but instead of showing his appreciation, Devin still hadn’t been able to keep out of trouble. Too much greed, too much booze and cocaine. Their mother had spoiled him, made him soft, God rest her soul.

  “Go to Starbucks and get me a venti double latte,” he ordered. He peeled off a twenty from the bills in his wallet and handed it to Cyril. “And tell them this time no goddamn foam.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Once the office door closed, Red unfolded his long legs from behind the desk and went to stare out the window. He consulted the Rolex on his broad wrist and then watched as a semi-tractor pulled from the parking lot below, passing through the gates that led into and out of the compound. Cyril’s black Cadillac Escalade left the lot behind it. The afternoon Memphis sky appeared gray and promised rain before the evening rush hour. Red shoved his ginger-hued hair, threaded with silver now, from his eyes.

  He’d nearly forgotten about Trina, had almost given up on ever finding her or recouping his substantial loss. She had to be the answer. God knew Boklov’s men had turned Devin’s place upside down looking for those rocks.

  Red had paid off the debt to keep his name intact. Because in his business, reputation was everything. Whoever said there was no honor among thieves didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about. But the Learys weren’t thieves, exactly. They were more like entrepreneurs you didn’t ever want to cross.

  And Trina had crossed him mightily.

  A train rumbled past on the nearby tracks, hauling freight to some unknown destination. Red wondered how long it would take their mystery jerk-off to spell out what he wanted in exchange for her whereabouts, if it really was her.

  Pat
ience.

  He had waited six years. He could wait a little more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  She hadn’t fled, at least not yet. But Samantha had returned to her apartment, not wanting to put Mark or his family any closer to danger. Spotting Lenny on the beach yesterday had confirmed he was indeed hovering nearby, watching her every move.

  For now she was heeding his warning, staying in town and waiting for him to tell her how much he wanted for his silence. But late last night, unable to sleep, Samantha had packed a single suitcase in case she made the snap decision to attempt an escape. Without her car, however, it wasn’t as if she could just hop a bus or plane, since both would require traveling to Charleston. And both would also require her driver’s license as an ID. If Lenny noticed her departure and told the police about her, chances were she wouldn’t be allowed to board.

  It seemed any choice she made had the potential to be the wrong one. Nerves frayed, she felt like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point.

  “Sam, you shouldn’t be moving that,” Luther fussed as she trudged from the stockroom with a boxful of jars of preserved lemons. Samantha planned to pair them with recipe cards for lemon pound cake and stack them in the front window. Despite the looming peril, she tried to focus on business, her only way to keep from going insane.

  “I have a few bumps and bruises. I’m not an invalid,” she argued as Luther pried the box from her arms.

  “Could’ve fooled me. You’re as pale as your cake flour. Now go on and work the cash register. I’ll take care of this.”

  “You were supposed to go home after setup—”

  “I’ll stay for a while. What else do I have to do?”

  Luther had been sticking to her like glue since Samantha arrived at the café. He’d been informed of the break-in at her apartment, although he wouldn’t say who had told him. She suspected Mark had contacted Luther and asked him to keep an eye on things. Mark had come to her apartment and driven her to work that morning. He’d said her car would be delivered to her around noon, and as she’d figured, he had refused payment for the new tires.