Always Look Twice

by Dawson, Geralyn

  Frank scowled. ‘‘Adam doesn’t need to stay. I’ll be fine. Tell him to go home to his family.’’

  Lynn pursed her mouth. ‘‘Are you sure?’’

  ‘‘I’m going to take that sleeping pill the doctor ordered and saw logs. Y’all go on now.’’

  Both women kissed Frank Monroe good night, then joined Mark, who waited in the hallway. ‘‘He looks good, don’t you think?’’ Lynn asked her daughter. ‘‘His color is better. I think he’s better. I think he’ll be fine.’’

  ‘‘I know he will,’’ Annabelle replied in a reassuring tone. She believed it, too. Seeing him had made all the difference. ‘‘I’m not worried at all, Mama. Not anymore.’’

  Not about this attack, anyway, she thought as she turned her attention to preventing another. The photographer was the key. He had to have been the one to set the explosives.

  They’d walked halfway back toward the waiting room when Annabelle slowed. Something was bugging her. Something her mom had said. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  She put that issue away as they returned to the hospital waiting room, and she was forced to run interference between Mark and Aunt Polly by falling on the proverbial sword and asking her aunt about her bunions. She watched her siblings’ jaws drop because they all knew that the question had invited a twenty-minute harangue.

  At least they wouldn’t ask her about her sex life in front of Mom. She couldn’t say the same if it were just Aunt Polly.

  Aunt Polly moved on to gallstones when the family doctor sauntered through the doors, his relaxed air easing the tension still humming inside Annabelle. He discussed the results of the latest tests and agreed that no family member needed to stay overnight. Annabelle thought her mother might burst into tears when he predicted that, barring any unforeseen complications, he would discharge Frank Monroe in two days.

  Relieved, her family scheduled hospital visits for the following day, after which Mark and Tag discussed security arrangements. Though it took creative maneuvering, Annabelle managed to escape the hospital without confrontation about her sex life from any of her oh-so-nosy relatives.

  Her thoughts returned to the photographer during the hour-long drive out to the farm in the rental car Tag had arranged. What was bothering her? What clue had her mother provided that she couldn’t quite put her finger on?

  ‘‘I need to clear my mind,’’ she said as she turned off the highway onto the road that led to the Monroe family farm. ‘‘Wish I had real running shoes instead of these Keds. I’d go for a run.’’

  Mark glanced at her. ‘‘You do have athletic shoes. Running clothes, too. I asked the Telluride police chief’s wife to buy us a little of everything to replace what we left at Stanhope’s place. I made sure you had workout clothes, since I know you prefer exercise to popping Xanax to deal with stress. They’re in suitcases in the back.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’ Annabelle wasn’t surprised. The man knew her too well. As soon as she got home she’d . . .

  ‘‘Why wait?’’ she murmured before steering the car off the road and onto the narrow shoulder. She pushed the button to release the trunk. ‘‘The house is about six miles straight up this road. Yellow paint with white shutters. You can’t miss it.’’

  Tag’s brows winged up. ‘‘You’re going running? Now?’’

  ‘‘You know, that is an excellent idea.’’ Mark opened his car door. ‘‘I’ll go with you.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be fine by myself.’’

  ‘‘I know, Annabelle. It’s my drug of choice, too.’’

  She shrugged, then spoke to Tag. ‘‘The first house on the left is my brother’s place. Keep going past it for another half mile. Do yourself a favor and say yes when my mom offers you chocolate cake.’’

  ‘‘Isn’t her kitchen blown to hell?’’

  ‘‘Won’t matter. She’ll have it. It’s my grandmother’s recipe and my sisters sell it in their bakery in town. One of them will have sent some home.’’

  She climbed out of the car and walked back to the trunk. Guessing that the pink suitcase was hers, she unzipped it, then removed running shoes, socks, a sports bra, and wind shorts. When she whipped her shirt over her head and reached to unfasten her bra, Mark muttered, ‘‘Good Lord.’’ Then he reached for his own suitcase and called out, ‘‘Eyes forward, Harrington.’’

  Five minutes later, the car’s taillights were pinpoints in the distance and Annabelle and her ex-husband ran side by side on the asphalt road. It was the first time they’d been alone since the shower sex, but she didn’t expect him to bring the subject up. She and Mark had been running partners for years, and they each knew what the other wanted while they ran—silence. Lovely, peace-bringing silence.

  Annabelle picked up her pace as the endorphins kicked in. The moon had yet to rise, and as the evening darkness deepened, stars flickered into sight in the sky above like freckles on a face. She filled her lungs with fresh country air. With the scent of home. And she ran a little faster. Her muscles strained, and her breathing labored. Her mind went blessedly blank.

  And suddenly she remembered.

  Chapter Ten

  Mark was thinking about fire ant hills and wondering if the pesky insect that terrorized Texas had made it as far north as Kansas when Annabelle pulled up short. ‘‘Eyelashes!’’

  He halted forward progress but continued to run in place as he asked, ‘‘You have something in your eye?’’

  ‘‘No, in my brain. Eyelashes!’’

  He wished the moon would rise. He could barely see her. ‘‘Honey, I think you’ve cracked.’’

  ‘‘Think back, Callahan. Remember when Colonel Warren was assembling the team? He brought on a guy that lasted two months, maybe three? He and Noah despised one another. Remember? He had the most beautiful eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a man.’’

  Mark rubbed the back of his neck as he thought for a moment. Kincannon had despised a lot of people. Finally, he shook his head. ‘‘Eyelashes on a man aren’t something I tend to notice, Annabelle.’’

  She snapped her fingers repeatedly, searching for the memory. ‘‘What was his name? C’mon, Callahan. You remember him. You didn’t like him any more than Noah did. One of the first things you did after the colonel named you as team leader was to give the guy the boot.’’

  Since it was obvious she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, Mark stopped jogging in place. ‘‘Why did I kick him off? What did he do wrong?’’

  He watched the shadow that was Annabelle brace her hands on her hips and stare at the ground. ‘‘I’m not sure. Oh, man. It was so long ago.’’

  ‘‘Almost ten years,’’ Mark said. ‘‘I’ve met a lot of people in that amount of time.’’

  ‘‘Me, too.’’

  ‘‘Which makes me wonder if your eyelash guy is the same guy as your mother’s eyelash guy. Maybe you two just have a thing for eyelashes. Ten years is a long time for someone to nurse a grudge without doing something about it.’’

  ‘‘So, something had to trigger it. I wonder what.’’ Without warning, Annabelle started running again. ‘‘We need to get to a phone and you need to call Colonel Warren. Ask him to get us a list of everyone who washed out of the program. Dad has a fax at home or the colonel could e-mail it. Whichever is easier. If I see the name, I’ll remember it.’’

  Hidden by the darkness, Mark gave her a smart-ass salute.

  An hour later, showered and dressed in a fresh T-shirt and jeans, Mark checked the fax machine and then his e-mail in her father’s office. Nothing on the fax, but his in-box had a message from the colonel. He opened the e-mail and read the list of names. He could recall some of the men; others he blanked on entirely. As he printed the list, the fax number rang and the first of the photographs came through.

  Those would take a while, Mark knew, so he carried the list of names toward the dining room, where he heard Annabelle speaking with her sister.

  ‘‘Mmm . . . ,’’ she moaned ecstatically. ‘‘N
othing on earth is better than Nana’s chocolate cake.’’

  ‘‘Are you sure about that?’’ Amy asked. ‘‘And here I was thinking that you’d rate sex with Sergeant Steamy as number one.’’

  Just out of sight beyond the doorway, Mark halted. He peered through the crack between the door and its frame to see his ex-wife seated at her mother’s dining room table sharing a double-sized slab of chocolate cake with her sister.

  Color flushed Annabelle’s cheeks as she closed her eyes. ‘‘What’s with this sudden fascination everyone has with my sex life?’’

  Amy shrugged. ‘‘You always made such a big deal out of holding out for marriage. I’m just glad to know they won’t be asking you to star in the sequel to The Forty-Year-Old Virgin.’’

  ‘‘Look, he’s a colleague. That’s all.’’ She paused as Amy snorted in disbelief, then added, ‘‘And he never was a sergeant. He was a lieutenant.’’

  ‘‘Lieutenant Luscious, then. Man, oh man . . . those shoulders, those six-pack abs.’’ She waggled her brows and pretended to swoon. ‘‘Tell me he has a package to match?’’

  ‘‘Amy! Excuse me, but what would your husband say about your ogling another man?’’

  She waved a dismissive hand. ‘‘I can blame it on hormones. That gets me out of all kinds of trouble these days.’’ She glanced toward the staircase, then said, ‘‘Mom has gone to bed, right?’’

  When Annabelle nodded, she leaned close and said in a low tone, ‘‘We haven’t told the folks yet, but I’m pregnant.’’

  Mark’s stomach sank. Shit. That’s all Annabelle needs.

  Outwardly, Annabelle reacted exactly how her younger sister would have wanted. Smiling widely, she reached over and hugged Amy hard. Mark knew her well enough to see that inwardly, though, she took it as yet another blow.

  Her baby sister was going to have a baby.

  ‘‘Ah, Amy, that’s wonderful news!’’ Annabelle bubbled. ‘‘I’m so happy for you. When are you due?’’

  ‘‘Christmas. If we have a girl, we’re going to name her Holly.’’

  Mark decided that now was a good time to intervene. He stepped into the doorway and cleared his throat. The women looked up. Annabelle’s chin lifted high as the old resentment rushed back into her eyes. ‘‘Do you need something?’’

  Mark suspected she’d like to throw her cake at him.

  He crossed the room, all business, as he handed the printed e-mail list to her. ‘‘Here are the names from Colonel Warren. He’s faxing the pictures now.’’

  His hair wet from his shower, Harrington entered the dining room as Annabelle studied the list. ‘‘William Ronald Kurtz,’’ she said. ‘‘Ron Kurtz. That’s him, Callahan.’’

  Ron Kurtz. Didn’t ring a single bell. Mark glanced at Harrington. ‘‘Do you remember him?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ His old friend shrugged. ‘‘The name doesn’t ring any bells for me.’’

  ‘‘Me, either. But Annabelle’s instincts are good. I think we might be on to something here.’’

  Amy rose from her seat. ‘‘Should I go wake Mom?’’

  ‘‘No, let her sleep,’’ Annabelle decided after a moment’s thought. ‘‘They said Adam met the photographer. Let’s call him instead.’’

  Adam Monroe drove a utility cart from his place up to the farmhouse, arriving just as the fax of Ron Kurtz’s image began to emerge from the machine in his father’s office. Mark clasped the paper the moment it was free and studied it. ‘‘Okay, yeah. Now I remember him.’’

  He handed the page to Adam, and Annabelle held her breath.

  Her brother frowned, then slowly nodded. ‘‘Yes, that’s the photographer. He’s the one who did this?’’

  Annabelle’s eyes gleamed with fierce exultation. ‘‘Yes, he’s the one who did this.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’ Amy asked. ‘‘What does he have against you?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’ Annabelle pursed her lips and considered it, then glanced up at Mark. ‘‘I also don’t know how he is connected to the impostor at the gallery.’’

  ‘‘I intend to find out,’’ Mark replied, his voice hard and determined. ‘‘Before anyone else gets killed.’’

  Captiva Island, Florida

  Ron Kurtz couldn’t understand why all these old geezers liked to collect seashells. The way he saw it, somebody who had the cash to retire to a place like this should collect something cool like classic cars or guns.

  Gun collecting would be fine. That’s what he would collect if he had the money. Antique firearms. Colt revolvers and Elgin cutlass pistols. A Remington Creedmoor rolling-block action rifle.

  Hell, he got hard just thinking about it.

  Instead, these old farts strolled along the sand looking for pieces of old dead animals.

  If you could call what they did strolling. More like tottering or weaving. He was glad the Kincannons had been the active type. Otherwise, Noah Kincannon might have considered his parents a burden and would have been glad to see them gone. That would have ruined everything.

  Kurtz lifted the baseball cap from his head and rubbed a hand over his hair, wiping away the sweat. He didn’t like wearing hats. Always made his head hot. But once he’d heard Noah’s most recent phone message and realized he had a few more hours to kill, he’d decided to get out of the house and the cap was part of his disguise.

  Not that he figured any of these geezers would pay a bit of attention to him. Their gazes were all locked on the beach, looking for their treasures.

  Hell, he should have stayed at the house. He’d walked down here hoping to spy some eye-candy pussy sunning in string bikinis. Instead, all he’d found were wrinkled-up prunes spoiling the scenery.

  Goddamned Land of the Retirees, Florida. Why hadn’t Noah sent his parents to a California beach?

  Whistling the Beach Boys’ ‘‘California Girls’’ beneath his breath, Kurtz turned and started back toward the Kincannon house, a short five-minute walk from the beach. He’d turn on the television and see who Oprah had on her show. Maybe he’d bake some cookies. While rummaging for breakfast in the pantry this morning, he’d noticed the old lady had the makings for chocolate-chip cookies. Bet old Noah would appreciate being met with the scent of fresh-baked cookies on the air when he walked through the front door.

  Besides, it would make his own wait more pleasant, since it would help cover up the stench of blood.

  Happy at the thought, Kurtz hitched his canvas supply bag over his shoulder and walked the short block to the white house with its pink plantation shutters. He wondered how Noah had liked his folks having pink shutters on their house.

  ‘‘Pretty damned gay if you ask me,’’ he murmured. He’d be embarrassed if it were his folks’ place.

  Just looking at the house pissed him off. Property like that had to be worth over a million. Probably a million five. Back in the day, Noah Kincannon didn’t come from money. None of the Fixers did. Well, technically the a-hole Callahan did, but nobody knew it at the time. It was their stint in the unit that made everyone rich, gave them the skills and experience and contacts they used to rack up the big bucks once they left the service. Made it possible for Kincannon to set his parents up in highfalutin digs like these.

  That’s what Callahan had taken away from him when he kicked him off the team. Taken away his future. Taken away his prosperity. He’d had to work his ass off all these years while they sat around and got rich. The bastard said he didn’t have what it took. Said he lacked discipline and the mental intensity to make it.

  Then that fucker Dennis Nelson had the balls to show up at his workplace and accuse him of turning on his country. Accuse him of being a goddamned traitor! Of all the nerve.

  It still chapped Kurtz’s ass that Nelson died before he could get to him.

  ‘‘Well, I’m teaching the rest of them, though, aren’t I?’’ Kurtz smiled, then burst into a laugh. ‘‘I’m teaching all of them.’’

  Access to the Kincannon house was a piece
of cake, with the lush vegetation shielding the view of any potentially nosy neighbors. When he’d arrived last night shortly before the Kincannons themselves returned home from a last-minute trip to Orlando—and why did old folks want to go to Disney, anyway?—he had picked the lock and waltzed inside slick as snot.

  The first thing he’d done after determining that no one was at home was to note the blinking light on the answering machine. Listening to the increasingly worried messages from the old geezers’ son had made him smile. In fact, he’d been so pleased by the stir he’d created that he took pity on Mom and Dad and waited until they came home and went to sleep before he shot them.

  Offing the old folks hadn’t given him quite the charge as doing Stanhope’s girlfriend in front of him. It paled in comparison with thinking about his little surprise for the Monroes.

  ‘‘Annabelle Monroe,’’ he murmured. ‘‘That bitch.’’ He chuckled at the idea of what she must be feeling right about now. He wondered how many of her family members died. With any luck, every last one of ’em. Maybe after he finished up here, he would stop by the local library or an Internet café and see what the Kansas papers had to say. Unfortunately, the Internet was down on the Kincannons’ computer. ‘‘That must needle Noah, too.’’

  Kurtz startled as the phone began to ring. He waited it out until the answering machine clicked on. ‘‘Mom? Dad? You there?’’

  Noah. Kurtz’s eyes widened and he grinned with delight.

  ‘‘Hello! Mom? Dad? Pick up the phone! Mrs. Wilson next door said you came home last night, so I know you’re there. I’ve been trying to track you down for a day and a half.’’

  Kurtz followed the sound to the room that served as a study for the old geezer, and the telephone sitting on the whitewashed desk. He was tempted . . . oh, so tempted . . . to answer and have a little conversation with dear old Noah.

  He heard mumbled curses coming from the machine, then a heavy sigh. ‘‘Mom, Dad, we need to make some changes. I know how much you two enjoy your impromptu trips, but you need to let somebody know where you are going and how you can be reached.’’