by Irene Hannon
At least when it came to matters of the heart.
She’d dragged her feet with Grant because she’d been unwilling to divert focus from her career.
She was dragging her feet again with Mark because she was unwilling to embrace the risk that caring for him would entail.
But perhaps caution in this case was good, she reassured herself. Mark had given no indication he was interested in anything serious. They’d flirted a little, enjoyed some lighthearted banter, had some fun and some laughs. Yes, there was chemistry.
That hadn’t faded one iota through the years. But time—and experience—did change people. Those changes might not be apparent at once. Nor were they necessarily all good. Only time would tell.
So for now, she would enjoy this interlude with Mark and expect nothing more, Emily decided.
No matter how hard Maria pushed.
“I heard an interesting rumor yesterday.”
Wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his paint-splattered T-shirt, Mark looked over at Nick and rested the roller in the pan at his feet. While he was spending his Sunday painting the ceiling, his host was focused on smoothing out the drywall seams on the far wall in what Nick claimed would soon be a formal dining room. As far as Mark was concerned, the room had a long way to go.
“Want to share it?”
“According to sources I can’t disclose, Dave Sheldon is retiring and heading west to take some cushy gig in a local police department.”
Keeping his expression bland, Mark reached for the damp rag slung over the rungs of a nearby ladder and wiped his hands. The news of Dave’s departure had leaked faster than he’d expected. He hadn’t even shared Steve’s offer yet with Coop. “Good for him.”
Nick angled a glance his way. “I thought you might be interested.” “Why?” Mark busied himself pouring some more paint into the pan.
“The SWAT team leader job will be open. As well as a spot on the reactive squad. You’ve got the credentials.”
“I have a job, Nick.”
“I know.” Nick concentrated on the seam he was disguising.
“But guys don’t stay on the HRT for more than a few years.
And Coop told me he’s leaving. I figured you might be looking around for another slot too.”
“I haven’t given it a lot of thought. Besides, when I do leave, I’ll probably look for a job closer to Tennessee. My mom’s not getting any younger, and it would be nice to see her and the rest of my family more.”
“St. Louis isn’t that far from Tennessee.”
“I have no connections to St. Louis.”
“I can think of one—wrapped up in a very pretty package.”
“If you happen to be referring to Emily, she and I are old friends. Nothing more.”
“Uh-huh.”
Aiming a disgruntled look toward Nick, Mark set the paint can back on a tarp. “Since when have you become a matchmaker?” “Hey, just trying to be helpful. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”
“Who are you to talk? I don’t see you planning a walk down the aisle.”
Turning, Nick grinned. “Wow. You’re farther gone than I thought if you have marriage on your mind.”
“I didn’t start this. You did.”
“I never mentioned marriage. I was thinking more along the lines of exploring an old attraction. I see it’s already moved beyond that.”
Annoyed, Mark shook his head and picked up the paint roller.
“You’re nuts.”
“Uh-huh.”
All at once, Mark was sorry he’d accepted Coop’s offer to escort Emily to church this morning while he and Nick worked on the house. At the time, he’d considered it a blessing in disguise. He had a feeling his lack of interest in church could be a point of contention between him and Emily, and he didn’t want to risk shaking the still-fresh foundation of their renewed friendship. Plus, he owed Nick for taking Emily to Hope House for her counseling session Friday afternoon while he and Coop sat in on an HRT meeting via conference call. Putting some time in on the rehab had seemed like a good way to pay back the debt.
In light of the present conversation, however, he no longer considered Coop’s offer a benevolent gift from above.
Since ignoring Nick’s comment seemed to be his best option, he turned away and dipped the roller in the pan of paint.
“Why is it so hard for you to admit you care about Emily?”
Stifling a groan, Mark focused on the blank wall in front of him. He’d forgotten how persistent Nick could be. And how open. Unlike Coop, who went out of his way to avoid talking about feelings, Nick dove right into the emotional stuff. Mark wasn’t always comfortable with that—like now—yet Nick’s comments often prompted him to think. Especially when he didn’t want to.
“I haven’t seen her in twenty years, Nick.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Will you stop with the ‘uh-huhing’?”
“As soon as you stop denying the obvious.”
“What’s it to you, anyway?”
Shrugging, Nick set his trowel on the makeshift workbench balanced atop two sawhorses. “Friends watch each other’s backs.”
“Okay.” Mark’s tone was cautious. “But I don’t see the danger here.”
“That’s the problem.” Nick gave Mark his full attention, no trace of his customary humor in evidence. “The danger, my friend, is that unless you’re very careful, you could let a great opportunity slip through your fingers. Take it from someone who’s been looking for a while. Women like Emily don’t come along every day.”
Mark’s eyes narrowed. “What did you two talk about during your little excursion to the shelter, anyway?”
“Enough to tell me my original impression about her being a special lady was right on. And to conclude her feelings for you run a lot deeper than you—or she—might think.”
“When did you become Dr. Phil?” Mark gave him an annoyed look.
“I’m no expert on what makes people tick. That’s Emily’s specialty. But I do pay attention to feelings. And vibes. You ought to give it a try.”
Turning back to the wall, Nick resumed his work. For a few moments Mark watched as his friend applied drywall compound over the taped seam in smooth, steady strokes. Nick was good at the work, patient and thorough. After the wall was painted, it would be impossible to tell where one board ended and the other began. The two would be joined by the touch of a master’s hand in seamless unity.
Kind of like the way a man and woman were united in a good marriage, Mark reflected. One blessed by God.
Startled by that unexpected analogy, Mark applied the paint roller to the ceiling, determined to give the task his undivided attention.
But two thoughts kept intruding.
First, God hadn’t been on his radar screen in years, and it was more than a little disconcerting to find him popping up now. He supposed he could thank Emily and her trust in the Almighty for planting that seed in his mind.
And second, it appeared Nick was right, after all.
He did have marriage on his mind.
As his BlackBerry began to vibrate, Mark slid it out of its holder and pressed it to his ear. “Sanders.”
“Mark, it’s Steve. We’ve got a new development on the shooting. Where are you?”
“Coop and I were running down some leads for Nick on the bank robbery. We’re on our way back.”
“Come to my office as soon as you get in.”
The line went dead, and Mark returned the device to his belt.
“What’s up?” Coop kept his attention on the road as he negotiated the Monday lunch-hour traffic in downtown St. Louis.
“Steve’s got something on the shooting.”
Ten minutes later, when he and Coop appeared in Steve’s doorway, the senior agent motioned them in. “Take a look at this.” He handed Mark two clear plastic sleeves.
The first contained an envelope addressed to him at the St.
Louis FBI office, postmarked Saturday
and mailed from a suburb in South St. Louis County. The address had been written on a label and affixed.
The second was a single sheet of paper, about six by eight, containing five handwritten words. “Next time I won’t miss.”
A muscle in his jaw clenched, and Mark sent Steve a questioning look as he handed the items to Coop.
“It came in the morning mail,” Steve supplied. “As soon as Rose opened it she called Clair. No one else touched it. We’ll get this to Quantico for analysis as soon as possible, along with the elimination prints for Rose. Clair copied it and the envelope, and I’ve couriered them to Carl in Oakdale. Here’s a set for you. I put in a call to your boss, but he hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”
As Steve handed the copies over, he motioned Mark and Coop into seats and hit the intercom button. “Clair, you can come get the originals now. Put them on the earliest possible plane.” He turned off the intercom and regarded the two agents seated across from him. “It would appear our man still has killing on his mind.”
“But why would he tell us that?” Mark frowned as he examined the copy of the note, his shoulders tense. Something didn’t feel right.
“By now he’s concluded we don’t have any good leads. If we did, we’d be breathing down his neck. It could be an in-your-face, yank-your-chain kind of thing.”
“Or it could be a red herring.”
At Coop’s comment, both men turned to him.
“That’s possible,” Mark acknowledged as he played out the possibilities in his mind. “It could also be a hoax. Somebody who saw the media coverage and wants to stir things up for laughs.
But if it is legit, it surprises me. The shooter was careful not to leave us much to work with after his first attempt. Why drop a piece of evidence into our laps?”
“Cockiness, maybe. Which can translate to mistakes. This could be a big one.” Steve held up the plastic sleeves. “And if it is, let’s cross our fingers that Quantico finds it.”
Resting an arm on the wooden gate that led to the pasture, he took a sip of coffee as he watched the two grazing cows in the distance. He’d always enjoyed raising his own beef, taken pride in his well-cared-for vegetable garden and carefully pruned fruit trees, liked eating scrambled eggs laid in his own chicken coop.
It was good to be self-sufficient. A sign of strength. Providing his family with everything they’d needed had always been a matter of honor for him.
But he didn’t much care about any of it anymore. He’d sold the chickens a month ago. They laid too many eggs for one man to eat. Weeds were taking over the garden, and the birds and squirrels were feasting on the ripe tomatoes littering the ground under the tall stakes. He hadn’t set foot among the fruit trees in weeks. Why bother to maintain the orchard and garden when Ruthie wouldn’t be canning and preserving?
As for the cattle . . . he’d always sold one to the local butcher and had the other slaughtered, storing it in the deep freeze in the basement for Ruthie to turn into savory stroganoff and potpies and spaghetti sauce. But there was plenty of meat in the freezer from the spring butchering, untouched in the past two months. Enough to last a solitary man for years. He didn’t need more. He should find a buyer for both cows.
Turning his back on the pasture, he let his gaze wander over the remainder of his property, ignoring the barn to his left. He hadn’t been inside since . . . for eight weeks . . . except to move the livestock feed and vet supplies into the empty chicken coop and pull the mower out. It was sitting in the open now, exposed to the elements, rusting a little more with each passing day.
He focused on the small house he and Ruthie had called home for all but the first three years of their marriage. It was nothing special, just a small clapboard, one-story farmhouse painted white with a screened porch in the back where they used to sit on summer nights and count the fireflies or watch the moon rise. They’d married a bit later in life than their friends, he and Ruthie. He’d been thirty-three the day they’d said their vows. She’d celebrated her thirty-first birthday the week before. They’d both wanted to live in the country, and these ten acres had given them their dream home.
The only thing missing in their life had been children. But no sooner had they stopped praying for a family than Ruthie had found out she was pregnant. Their son had been born on their tenth anniversary, and after his birth, that day had always been a double celebration. He and Ruthie would have marked twenty-six years come November.
But there would be no celebration this year.
He took another sip of his coffee, which had grown cold and acrid. Tilting the cup, he watched as the earth absorbed the black, bitter liquid. And wished he could find a way to erase the gnawing pain inside him with the same ease.
Maybe, after he finished God’s work, he would find peace.
Didn’t Pastor Phelps always talk about the serenity that came from following God’s call? And God had called him to this task, his voice incessant. He’d first heard it in his dreams. Now it kept him awake at night. And he had begun hearing it during the day too. It was clear to him the Lord wanted the deaths avenged.
And the Almighty had put the task in the hands of the man most wronged. While he didn’t relish killing, he couldn’t ignore God’s command: an eye for an eye.
When it was over, he’d have decisions to make. Grief to deal with. All of that had been put on hold while he carried out his mission. But he couldn’t lose focus now. He was too close. That’s why he’d sent the note, directing attention away from his quarry. Soon God would show him the rest of the plan.
All he had to do was wait and watch for the message.
12
“Les, are you with us?”
Steve surveyed the table in the FBI’s Joint Operations Center as he directed his question toward the speaker phone. Mark and Coop were there, along with Clair. Carl Owens represented the Oakdale PD at the Tuesday meeting.
“I’m here. Christy and Paul Sheehan, our handwriting expert, are with me.”
“Good.” Steve turned to the ERT lead investigator. “Clair, you’ve talked to the lab in Quantico. What do we have?”
“Unfortunately, not much.” She consulted a report in front of her. “The paper the note was written on is standard typing stock, thinner than usual, but there’s nothing to distinguish it. It was pristine except for Rose’s elimination prints, meaning the author wore some kind of gloves. The address was written on the same kind of thin paper and glued on the envelope. There were a few prints on the envelope, but none matched any in our database. I also checked the Missouri Highway Patrol records for new print entries that might not yet be in the national system. No matches there, either. Both the message and the address were written with a common ballpoint pen.”
“Our man is still being very careful.” Steve tapped his finger against the table and furrowed his brow. “What do you have from your end, Les?”
“I’ll jump in here,” Christy said. “Les asked me to look at this from a behavioral perspective. Assuming this note was written by our shooter, the fact that he’s communicating his intent to strike again is interesting. As is the choice to handwrite the message.”
“I wondered about that too,” Mark said. “Why wouldn’t the guy just buy a set of kids’ block letters and stamp out the note?”
“Cockiness or sloppiness, perhaps,” Christy responded. “If he’s getting cocky, he may be starting to have fun with this and is pushing the limits because he feels invincible. Sloppiness, on the other hand, might indicate his thinking is beginning to muddle. If we’re dealing with an unstable person, increasingly erratic and unpredictable behavior wouldn’t be a surprise. But we have no way of knowing his motivation or mental state from the evidence we have to date. Either scenario, however, could result in mistakes.”
“This could also be a harmless hoax from some nut unrelated to the shooting,” Les chimed in. “But I think we have to assume worst case—that this was written by the shooter. And if it was, this guy is either a loose cannon o
r a meticulous killer. Either way, he’s determined to finish what he started.”
During this exchange, Mark watched Coop jot a few words on the notepad in front of him. His partner shoved the pad toward him when he finished.
Les is going to yank you back to Quantico.
The same thought had occurred to him. That was Les’s style. The HRT chief wasn’t afraid to hit hard if necessary, but he took seriously the FBI’s directive to reduce risk and avoid excessive force whenever possible, always opting for a negotiated resolution versus a tactical conclusion if given a choice. In the current scenario, reducing unnecessary risk would mean removing Mark from the line of fire on the assumption he was the target.
But Mark wasn’t convinced of that yet.
“Let’s talk about the handwriting,” Steve said.
“The letters were traced one by one from another document and linked,” Paul responded. “The writer was very careful, but under magnification you can see some overlap in pen strokes at the points of connection. If we had a handwriting sample from the person who wrote the source document, we could confirm the match and use that to explore some leads. Without an original, we’re left with nothing more than an apparent forgery.”
“Meaning we’re back to square one.” Carl heaved a frustrated sigh.
There was a brief silence.
“Steve, how would you feel about cutting Mark loose early from his St. Louis assignment?” Les said at last.
“I’d prefer to see this through, Les,” Mark interjected, glancing at Coop.
“The risk there is too high. Steve?”
When Steve shot him a questioning look, Mark gave a subtle shake of his head.
“He’s been assisting with a major bank robbery case, Les.
And we’re still shorthanded here. With Coop glued to Mark and another agent filling in as backup when necessary, we’ve got him covered. I’d like to hang on to him unless you have an urgent need.”