by Gayle Wilson
“What?” he asked, eyes back on the road as he urged the truck along at a speed far faster than he normally drove.
“Maybe she’s the one who called me.”
It took a second. “To come to the playground that night?”
“It was a woman’s voice on the phone. It might have been a woman wielding that bat.”
He didn’t know a lot about Adams’s sister, but a mother desperate to hold on to her child was probably capable of anything. Even if the child she was trying to keep wasn’t hers. Maybe more so if that were the case.
Despite the speed at which he was driving, Jeb couldn’t see any sign of the black pickup ahead. And they were rapidly approaching the Linton turnoff. Both roads would eventually lead to Pascagoula, the narrow two-lane Richard had taken going through the center of town and the other, the more modern four-lane, although longer, going straight to the city. If the truck he was looking for had already reached that fork…
He topped a slight rise, looking down on it. In the gathering twilight there was no other vehicle in sight. And no way to know which road Diane Paul had chosen.
“What is it?” Susan asked as he slowed.
“I’m not sure which way she went.”
“Into town,” Susan said. As if there was no doubt.
Without questioning her reasoning, he swung the Avalanche into the turn that would take them through Linton.
“She’s going to pick up Emma.”
He hoped to hell Susan was right. Because if she wasn’t, by the time they backtracked, it would be full dark. There would be no way to recognize that pickup in the traffic on the state road. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Or, to make an even more frighteningly appropriate analogy, it would be like looking for a little girl who’d been hidden among a dozen others in a place no one ever expected her to be.
“MAYBE SHE WAS STAYING with a friend from school,” Susan said, peering into the growing darkness as they drove through the heart of the small community.
Jeb didn’t bother to comment, trying to catch sight of the pickup they’d sought through these narrow streets. There was nothing wrong with Susan’s speculation, except they had no way to know which friend, which street, or even the direction in which they should be searching.
“Jeb, look.”
He turned in time to see taillights disappear at the other end of a side road. Surely Susan wasn’t suggesting she could recognize Diane’s pickup from it tail-lights.
“You think that’s it?”
“I think it may be,” she said, her voice full of excitement. “There isn’t that much traffic. Maybe…”
By the time she’d finished the second sentence, he’d begun to turn the truck, swinging it around to make a U-turn in the middle of the narrow street. Although he had to back up and then complete the arc, it was a matter of seconds before he was headed toward the place where Susan had spotted the taillights.
When he reached the end of that street, his instinct was to turn right, which would take them back toward Diane’s house. As he turned his head to the left, however, checking for oncoming traffic, he saw a flicker of red wink out in the darkness.
Feeling strongly that if Diane had come into town to pick up her daughter, she should now be headed home, he looked to his right again. And into black, unbroken night. Without asking Susan’s opinion, he turned left and then gunned the big truck.
“Where do you think she’s going?” she asked.
“Obviously not home.”
“Maybe that wasn’t her.”
Maybe not, but their options were running out. The thing Susan had feared, the thing he’d assured her wouldn’t happen, seemed to be coming to pass. And unless they got lucky…
For endless minutes they rode in silence, their eyes straining for any sign of the pickup that seemed to have vanished into thin air. As they approached the small downtown section, better illuminated because of its streetlights, he slowed, eyes searching every parking lot and side street.
When he spotted the black truck, it was parked exactly where he should have expected it to be. At the Johnson County Sheriff’s Department.
He slowed, trying to see if there was anyone inside. The angle of the light streaming from the windows of the sheriff’s office didn’t reach out that far, however.
“That’s it,” he said as he drove by. He turned right at the corner, planning to circle the block and then park where he could keep an eye on the vehicle.
“What’s she doing?”
“Maybe arranging protection.”
“From us?”
“Or from whoever killed her brother.”
“But if Jemison—”
“All we know is that Jemison didn’t tell the truth about the fax. Maybe he did that to protect Diane as much as to keep the FBI out of this.”
“You don’t believe that,” Susan said.
“At this point, I’m not sure of anyone’s motives. All I know is that someone in this town knows why Richard was murdered that night. And that Diane Paul is the only link that can lead us back to his killer.”
“And to Emma.”
If we’re lucky…
He eased the Avalanche into one of the parallel-parking spots across the street and down the block from the sheriff’s department, killing the lights. All they could do now was wait. And hope they were right about Diane’s ownership of the pickup they were watching.
It didn’t take long for that to be confirmed. Less than ten minutes after they’d begun their vigil, the door to the office opened. Diane, recognizable by the pale jeans she’d been wearing as well as by her height, stepped through it. She was followed by a little girl and then by Buck Jemison, easily identifiable by his size.
“Jeb.” Susan’s low whisper was filled with excitement.
“I see them.”
He assumed that Buck would escort the two out to the truck. Instead, as Diane opened the passenger-side door for the child, Jemison crawled into the driver’s seat, starting the pickup before Diane could get the door closed. He backed out of the lot and, in another surprising move, headed out of town in the opposite direction from Diane’s house.
“Now what?” Susan asked.
Jeb pulled the truck out of the space, leaving the headlights off as he followed. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully.
All he knew was that two of the three people connected to whatever had happened the night Richard Kaiser died were in the vehicle ahead of them. And that wherever they were headed, he didn’t intend to lose them.
“THAT’S WHERE Richard’s car went off.”
Although she’d remained silent while they followed Diane’s pickup through the darkness, something about the entrance to the bridge where her husband died had wrenched the sentence from her. It was as if tonight they were repeating the journey he and Emma had made seven years ago. With the same outcome?
She held her breath as Jeb negotiated the treacherous turn with only the moonlight to guide him. The red taillights still beckoned in the distance. Only someone who knew the road with a long and intimate familiarity could do what Jeb was doing.
After perhaps twenty minutes the Avalanche began to slow, causing her to look away from the twin dots so far ahead. Jeb was leaning forward, his hands positioned high on either side of the steering wheel, the tension of trying to follow those taillights through the darkness visible in his posture.
“What is it?”
“They’re slowing,” he said.
“Out here? For what?”
“I don’t know.”
She stared through the windshield again, realizing what he obviously had. No longer pinpoints, the tell-tale oval shape of the lights she’d recognized were once again becoming distinct.
Jeb continued to let the Avalanche lose momentum gradually rather than using the brakes. As they watched, the taillights disappeared off to the right of the two-lane.
Unable to risk using his own headlights, Jeb missed the
dirt track Jemison had taken, running by it in the darkness. Just as he had the night Lorena had sent him to find her after Diane ran her off the road, he swung the his truck in a wide arc, using both shoulders of the road to turn it.
“Hurry,” she urged, unable to bear the thought of what might be going on at the other end of that dirt track. Instead of turning into it, however, Jeb parked the Avalanche as far off the shoulder on the other side of the two-lane as he could.
“Come on,” he said as he opened the driver’s-side door. He was out before she could find the handle, waiting for her when she came around the back of the truck.
“I think it’s safer if we walk.”
“Wouldn’t it be quicker to drive?”
“The river parallels this road. They aren’t going far.”
The implications of that had barely sunk in before his hand in the small of her back urged her forward. They crossed the deserted two-lane at a run, entering the shadowed track down which the pickup had disappeared.
After only a few steps she discovered its major component was sand rather than dirt, and that the shoes she wore, the same leather moccasins she’d worn that night on the playground, were less than suitable for this. Even with his limp, Jeb had to slow his pace so she could keep up.
She peered through the darkness around them, trying to find the pickup. The thickness of the foliage that surrounded the trail they followed, as well as the over-arching branches, festooned with Spanish moss, blocked the moonlight.
“Shh…” Jeb’s hand on her arm reinforced his warning.
The track, large enough for the passage of one vehicle, had begun to widen. Beyond the end lay a clearing, centered by a sprawling structure that hugged the riverbank, visible behind it. The pattern of moonlight on the slow-moving water was broken by patches of marsh grasses and the long stumps of rotting trees.
“What is this?”
Despite the softness of her whispered question, Jeb’s fingers tightened over her arm. He shook his head, the motion abrupt. She wasn’t sure if it were intended as a warning not to talk or as an acknowledgment that he knew as little about the structure as she did.
Applying pressure to the wrist he held, he pulled her with him, continuing to hug the edge of the woods surrounding the clearing. They moved to the right of the building, which she had now identified as either a fishing camp or summer cabin.
After they’d gone only a few feet, she could see the pickup parked at its back. There was no sign of the occupants. Beyond the truck, a wooden pier stretched over the marsh and out into the river.
The sight of that dark water created a coldness in the pit of her stomach. Although she had never seen it at night, she knew this must be very much like the area around the bridge where Richard’s car had been pushed into this same river.
Was that what Jemison planned for Diane? Was that why he’d driven Diane’s car here rather than following in the cruiser?
A noise, sounding like a stifled scream, tore her attention from the river. It was followed by a solid thump, like wood striking wood, and then by a muffled curse, clearly masculine.
Jeb reacted more quickly than she did. She grabbed at him as he ran by her, and then she saw what he must already have seen.
Across the opening in the trees where the moon revealed the dark, marshy waters darted a small figure. Before her mind could remember the name her daughter might recognize, Susan became aware of the man who followed her. Jemison’s size and longer stride made the outcome of the chase obvious. And inevitable.
She began to run, following Jeb, who was perhaps ten or twelve yards ahead of her now. Again her eyes strained through the darkness, trying to distinguish the little girl against the backdrop of misshapen stumps and tall grasses.
“Alex,” she called. “It’s all right. We’re here.”
Although Jeb didn’t slow, she knew he would have preferred that she not warn Jemison of their presence. He would have known soon enough, however, and the thought of Emma’s terror was enough to drive any other consideration from her mind.
Whether it was the sound of her voice or the promise of the words, the little girl hesitated, turning to look for her.
“Run, Alex. Run,” Jeb shouted.
Emma started to obey, but not before she had instinctively glanced behind her, searching for her pursuer. The motion of her daughter’s head drew Susan’s gaze back to Jemison as well.
The moonlight that glinted off the water behind Emma now also captured the sheen of metal of the up-raised cane knife he carried in his right hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THERE WAS NO TIME to try anything else. And every second of Jeb’s professional life had prepared him to make that decision.
Ignoring the agony in his shattered ankle, a pain so intense that not even the adrenaline flooding his system could block it, he sprinted across the last few yards that separated them. He launched himself at Jemison as the deputy brought the cane cutter up over his head.
Jeb hit the deputy low, taking the man’s legs out from under him. The momentum of his run drove both of them backward toward the river.
Although he anticipated the blow, the thought of the damage the heavy blade might inflict was not even a consideration. All he cared about was getting the weapon far enough away from Emma that she was no longer within its range.
As soon as he made contact with his enemy, he deliberately forced any concern about the child from his mind. His job was to disarm or disable her assailant. He couldn’t do that without focusing entirely on the fight he was engaged in.
Susan would take care of her daughter. All she had to do was to hide her until—
They hit the ground together, the air rushing out of Jemison’s lungs in a satisfying whoosh as Jeb’s body landed solidly on his chest and stomach. The force of the fall wasn’t enough to keep the larger man from attempting to roll—carrying Jeb with him—in order to put himself on top.
That the maneuver had begun so immediately was either the result of the well-honed instincts of a street fighter or professional training. Jeb hadn’t wanted to discover either in an opponent. Especially not one who outweighed him by fifty pounds and was still armed.
Even as he denied Jemison’s attempt to put him on the ground, Jeb lunged upward over the deputy’s body, searching for the wrist of the hand that held the machete-like blade. With his other hand, he reached for Jemison’s eyes, trying to get his stiffened fingers into their sockets.
Again his assailant attempted to throw him off, bucking under his weight like a bronc gone mad. In response, Jeb slammed the heel of his hand down as hard as he could on the middle of his face. He felt bone give as Jemison’s nose broke under the blow.
The shock of it seemed to infuriate the deputy, giving renewed strength and determination to his efforts. By now the fingers of Jeb’s left hand were locked around the wrist of Jemison’s right. He banged it repeatedly on the ground, trying to loosen the other man’s grip on the cane knife.
At the same time, the fingers of Jeb’s right hand were again reaching for Jemison’s eyes. The fist that connected with his temple was expected, but the blow was surprisingly powerful, enough to cause his ears to ring and the air to thin and darken around his head for a few seconds.
The roundhouse swing gave Jeb the opening he needed. He managed to poke two fingers into his opponent’s eye. With a roar of rage, the deputy wrenched his hand out of Jeb’s grip, regaining control of the machete.
As soon as he felt that wrist slip from his grasp, Jeb threw himself to the side and continued the roll, taking him away from Jemison’s body.
As soon as he’d put enough distance between them to escape the reach of the blade he scrambled to his feet. Jemison was also attempting to rise and momentarily vulnerable. Wishing he were wearing boots, Jeb kicked out, striking the deputy solidly in the ribs with the toe of his shoe.
Once again he thought he’d felt bone snap, but he couldn’t be sure. As soon as his foot connected, he had h
ad to dodge the backswing of the cane knife. Its razor-sharp tip sliced through his jeans and seared a path across his thigh.
Not life-threatening. His evaluation of the injury was instantaneous. One he’d been trained to make automatically.
This cut wasn’t serious enough to slow him down. Not under normal circumstances. Except he was rapidly discovering these were anything but normal. And given the extent of the wounds he’d suffered in Iraq, he was forced to acknowledge they might never be again.
This, then, was to be the test he’d hoped never to face, not even if he’d been allowed to rejoin his unit. The kind of hand-to-hand, physical combat in which he had once believed he could hold his own against anyone.
Please, God, let that still be true…
Jemison was on his feet, the weapon held in front of him. Like wary dogs, they faced one another in the moonlight, their bodies crouched slightly forward. Arms away from their sides. Alert for any movement.
Jemison struck first. The sweep of the hooked blade was close enough that Jeb had to jump back, feeling the force of its passage through the air in front of him. His damaged ankle protested the awkward landing, causing him to stagger slightly.
Jemison didn’t miss the opportunity. He swung the cane knife again, the deadly tip missing Jeb’s chest by a hairsbreadth, driving him farther back toward the water.
Its length was too great an advantage. The deputy could keep him at a distance, forced to dodge until his damaged leg betrayed him. One slip in the mud of the riverbank, one more awkward landing, and Jeb knew he would go down.
Jemison was too good not to take advantage of that kind of mistake. Too proficient at what he had come here tonight to do.
Jeb tried to think of something he could use to counter the attacks that were becoming increasingly bold as his opponent realized his vulnerabilities. The odds were all in Jemison’s favor, and unless he could change them…
The sudden thought seemed too simple. The more he considered it, however, the more sense it made. He’d always been good in the water. He’d grown up around it, and his Delta training had only heightened his confidence.