by Marta Perry
His cell phone buzzed, and he yanked it out. He’d missed a call from Rachel at some point, and also had a message from her—ridiculous to feel exhilarated because she was contacting him, wasn’t it? He scanned the text, his earlier joy replaced by growing fear for her. She’d been here, but she’d left, heading for the place where she and Paul had been married. She thought the flash drive might be there.
Why? Where? He hit the steering wheel in frustration. He remembered the photos, all right, but she hadn’t mentioned specifically where the wedding had taken place. A lake, a park, outside the city...but where?
He started to call her, but glanced up first just in time to see Ian Robinson’s car pull out of the lot. Startled, he saw it wasn’t Ian driving. It was James Attwood.
Instinct sent alarms racing through him. This didn’t feel right. He pulled out as soon as traffic passed and followed Attwood at a safe distance. Once he felt convinced he was headed for the Schuylkill Expressway, he picked up the phone again and called Rachel.
No answer. And he remembered her saying, on that drive back to Philly, that she never used her cell phone while driving. When the phone went to voicemail he left a quick message, then followed it up with a text, basically saying where are you and don’t do anything until I get there.
He’d like to believe she’d listen. In the meantime, his instincts told him to follow Attwood, to see what he was doing slipping off in the middle of the day in someone else’s car. Something wasn’t right about that, and Rachel was out there somewhere by herself.
Following Attwood worked out fine, right up until the time he lost him. A fender bender right in front of him caused an inevitable delay, and by the time he was clear, the car was nowhere in sight. Attwood could have turned off at any one of several exits.
All right, so he’d find out where Rachel was another way, since she hadn’t called back. He punched in the number for Lyn, waiting impatiently. If she were in the classroom or doing any one of a hundred things she might be doing, she wouldn’t answer.
But she did.
“This is Clint. Quick, tell me where Rachel and Paul got married.”
Inevitably she said, “Why?”
“Just tell me. It’s important.”
The strain in his voice must have gotten through to her.
“Bentwood County Park. Out on...”
“Yeah, I know it.” He hung up.
He pulled off at the next exit, mentally plotting a course to the park. Think. Why did he have this sense of urgency? Was it justified or an overreaction?
Rachel thought she knew where the flash drive might be. Instead of waiting until he could deal with it, she’d headed out on her own. He couldn’t deny that she was a strong woman for all her obvious gentleness. But in this case she may have taken on more than she could handle.
Okay, think. So she’d gone to see Ian, someone she considered a friend of Paul’s. Why? Obviously for some reason connected with the flash drive. If she’d told him where she thought it was...
But in that case, why was Attwood the one who seemed to be following her? The possibility came clearly. Because Attwood was the one primarily concerned with the flash drive. Either Robinson had told him or he’d learned some other way what Rachel intended.
It might be perfectly innocent. He could have made arrangements to meet Rachel there so that she could turn over the flash drive to him. But his gut told him it wasn’t that easy.
He didn’t like James Attwood—hadn’t from the beginning. The man struck him the wrong way. But that didn’t mean he was up to something underhanded. After all, why would he be? He’d already said he’d found a flaw in the design, rendering the flash drive worthless. Whatever the pot of gold invention that Paul had expected to share in, this apparently wasn’t it.
That set up another train of thought. Rachel had said that there had been an agreement among the four of them to share the fruits of Attwood’s ideas. According to Claire, that agreement had been superseded by the time the company was successful. But what exactly had that agreement said?
He called Logan, quickly told him where he was and what was going on. “Listen, maybe I’m jumping the gun, but I don’t like this situation. Get hold of either Robinson or the Gibson woman and press them for exactly what was in that original contract that the four of them signed.”
“Any leverage I can use to get them to cough it up?” Logan asked only the pertinent question, sizing up the situation and trusting Clint’s judgment.
“Probably not, but I’d say try Robinson first. He looks like the weaker link to me. He knows, if I’m not mistaken, what Rachel is doing. Press him on it. And if necessary, you might point out all those records you found that show him in posh hotels when he should have been home by the fireside.”
Logan grunted. “That should do it. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”
Clint cut off the call without another word. They didn’t need words—that was one of the great things about their partnership. If it could be done, Logan would do it.
In the meantime, he had to get to Rachel, but the rain had started again, inevitably slowing traffic and annoying drivers eager to get somewhere before rush hour. He gritted his teeth, clenching the steering wheel and glaring at the vehicle ahead of him, trying to deny the increasing sense of danger.
* * *
RACHEL KEPT REMINDING herself there was no hurry as she battled the rain and the traffic. Either the flash drive was there or it wasn’t.
She turned off onto the narrow two-lane road that led into the park. Here, too, the rain and wind had stripped colorful leaves from the trees, changing them to a sodden brown slush underneath. The picnic groves were deserted, and it looked as if not a soul had ventured into the park on a day like this.
The road meandered its way through wooded areas. She passed the turnoff to the boat dock, and she could see, through the opening, the glint of the lake and the thin stripe of the walking trail that wound around the lake. The next turnoff should, if she remembered correctly, lead to the spot she wanted.
Yes, there it was. A rustic sign told her this was the lane to the Willow Amphitheater, a rather generous term for the collection of benches facing the arbor and the lake. She pulled into the gravel parking lot and stopped, glad she’d worn a rain jacket with a hood. The driving rain had slackened to a chilly drizzle, but as she stepped out it managed to drip directly down the back of her neck.
After pulling the hood up, she locked the car and headed down the path, hands shoved in her pockets against the cold. Too bad she hadn’t made up her mind to do this the previous day, when the sun had gilded the world with the golden glow of autumn.
Actually, now that she considered it, this was a better day for her task. She’d hardly have wanted families picnicking in the area when she was about to dismantle a park landmark.
When she stepped out into the clearing the lake spread out before her, gray and uninviting on such a dark, dreary day...so very different from the last time she’d seen it. Then the now-wet benches had been filled with friends, and sunlight had glinted off the water that sparkled in the background.
She and Lyn had come early to decorate the arbor with flowers before rushing off to change for the ceremony. Ian and Paul had been there supposedly to help, but mostly they’d clowned around and gotten in the way. Paul had been in such good spirits that day, filled with an elation and enthusiasm she’d seldom seen afterward except when he’d had an unexpected win on the horses or in a poker game.
It appalled her now to think of how long it had taken her to catch on to what was happening. How could she have been so blind? Apparently the initial bloom of love had that effect on even the sensible.
Rachel forced herself to walk steadily down the aisle between the benches where she’d once gone with a singing heart. Now that she was here, the weather actually seemed appropriate to her task
. Finding the flash drive, holding in her hand the evidence of Paul’s duplicity, would put a definite period to that part of her life.
A chill breeze ruffled the surface of the lake as she approached the sundial, sending up little whitecaps that chased one another across the water. She stopped, planting her hands on the rim of the sundial.
Count only the sunny hours. There had been few enough of them to count, as it had turned out. Today was yet another example—the sundial couldn’t tell anyone the time today.
Taking a deep breath, she put her hands on the gnomon, the triangular blade that, when properly oriented, gave one a rough idea of the time on a sunny day. Paul probably hadn’t noticed whether he’d put it back correctly. If not, some maintenance person may have come along and had it out again, exposing anything the lay beneath.
She twisted, lifting. Nothing. It didn’t budge. Maybe it had been secured in place since that day. How deflating if, after all her talk, she couldn’t even get it out.
The thought gave her strength, and she tugged at it again. It popped out so suddenly that Rachel stumbled back a step or two, gripping it in her hand.
For a moment she hesitated, feeling an irrational desire to put it back without looking, walk away and try to forget. But that was cowardly and probably impossible. She took a step forward and peered down into the opening.
She expected dirt, but it was surprisingly dust-free, apparently because it was such a tight fit. In the moment before her eyes adjusted, she thought it was empty. Then she saw. At the bottom lay the remnant of a withered flower, brown and disintegrating. And on top of it, in a plastic case, was a flash drive.
Steeling herself as if she had to touch something hot, she grasped the flash drive with her fingertips and pulled it out. For a moment her fingers lingered on the remnants of the flower. It would crumble to dust if she tried to take it out, just like the hope it had symbolized.
Withdrawing her hand, she stood looking for a moment at the small, innocent plastic case on her palm. She’d been right in what she’d felt. This really was hot, in the sense that it affected anyone who touched it. It may very well have caused Paul’s death.
The voice from behind her had her hands closing over the drive.
“Rachel. So you knew where it was all along.”
She spun around to find James Attwood standing not more than ten feet away from her. For an instant she could only gape. How had he known she was here?
Then the meaning of his words penetrated. “No, no, of course I didn’t. I only realized it last night, when I started to think about that last text I received from Paul.”
Behind the black-rimmed glasses he wore, James’s eyes grew blank. “Asking you to meet him at his apartment? How would that bring you here?”
“Not that one. He’d messaged me earlier, referring to our wedding.” She gestured, realizing she still held the triangular blade in one hand. “Here. You remember.”
“Yes, I remember.” He glanced around. “Looks a little different today.”
She almost said that everything was different, but held her tongue. There were more important things than her particular failure.
“James, this proves it, doesn’t it? Paul put the flash drive here, thinking it would be safe. Doesn’t that show that he’d reconsidered? He wasn’t going to sell it, after all.”
He was looking at her hand...the one holding the flash drive. He seemed to force himself to focus on her words.
“I suppose. It doesn’t matter now.”
“It matters,” she said, stung. “Paul may have been tempted, but in the end he didn’t betray his friends. Please...there’s no need for all of this to come out, is there?”
Again she had that sense that his attention was elsewhere. The silence was just a little too long before he answered. “No, of course not. You’re right. It’s best if it isn’t mentioned again at all. I’ll destroy the drive, and that will be the end of it.”
“Good.”
But it wasn’t good. Something was off about this whole conversation. She stood there, fingers clamped around the drive, and listened to her instincts. Something was wrong.
“Give it to me.” James held out his hand for the drive, taking a step closer.
A wave of fear flooded over her, and she knew what felt off-key. James had assumed she was talking about the message to meet Paul at his apartment when she’d spoken of the final text. How had he known about it? No one knew except Clint and the police, and she couldn’t see them confiding in James.
He’d know if he were the one who’d sent it. A small voice in the back of her mind made the observation.
Impossible. What reason could he possibly have? But she couldn’t ignore the impulse that had her gripping the flash drive so tightly she’d have to pry her fingers away.
“Rachel, give it to me, and I’ll take care of it. You won’t have to worry about anything coming out, I promise.” He smiled, possibly meaning it to be reassuring, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. They were cold, very cold.
He took a step toward her, and she said the first thing that came into her mind.
“Clint is coming to meet me. I... We should wait for him.”
The smile vanished. “I see. You don’t trust me.”
“It’s not...” Her disclaimer vanished when he pulled a handgun from his jacket.
“I really am sorry, Rachel. I didn’t want to do any of this.” He must have seen her panicked glance toward the parking area. “Are you looking for your friend Clint? I’m afraid he won’t be along. He was following me, you see, but I managed to lose him. He’s probably sitting in traffic somewhere. So it’s just the two of us.” He raised the weapon, pointing it directly at her. “I don’t want to use the gun. Just give it to me.”
* * *
CLINT HEARD THE words as he neared the clearing. He froze, heart stopping. Rachel. He had to get to her. He took a few silent steps forward. He was nearly there, but not close enough. He moved cautiously behind the branches of an evergreen and looked toward the lake.
The scene spread out in front of him—the gray lake, the man with the gun and Rachel, standing by the cement sundial he’d seen in the photos, clutching something in her hand. Mind working feverishly, he calculated the distance between himself and Attwood, between Attwood and Rachel. Not good. If he tried to rush the man, Attwood would have plenty of time to get off a shot before he could get anywhere near him.
He was carrying, of course, but his weapon didn’t seem likely to do him any good as long as Attwood’s gun was trained on Rachel. Even as he thought that, he saw Rachel’s face change as she spotted him.
Unfortunately, Attwood saw it, as well. Still holding the gun on Rachel, he looked back at Clint. Then he took a step closer to Rachel, aiming the weapon directly at her face.
“I might have known you’d get here. A little too soon, as it happens.”
“James, this is crazy.” The words burst out of Rachel. “We agreed to destroy the drive, didn’t we? All I want is that Paul not be considered a thief.”
“That’s not what Attwood is worried about.”
Clint took a step forward. Maybe, if they kept Attwood distracted, an opportunity would come to rush him. Or at least to get the weapon pointed at him instead of Rachel. He had to give her that chance.
“You think you’ve figured it out? I doubt it.” Attwood had that superior attitude down pat. He honestly didn’t think anyone else was as smart as he was.
“You want the file destroyed because if anyone else who understood it got a look, they’d recognize it for the breakthrough it is. Not the failure you’ve been trying to make everyone believe.”
“Stop right where you are,” Attwood ordered, and the expression on his face told Clint he’d been right. “Take your gun out very slowly with your left hand and toss it on the ground.”
When Clin
t didn’t obey instantly, Attwood’s weapon moved a few inches closer to Rachel’s face.
“Okay, okay, just back off.” His fear for Rachel was nearly uncontrollable, but he had to master it. He had to push it to one side if he were going to find a way to save her.
Carefully, using two fingers, he took out his weapon. He held it at arm’s length for a moment, and then tossed it to the ground about five feet in front of him.
While Attwood’s eyes were on him, Rachel moved slightly to one side. Careful not to let his face betray him, Clint watched her. Good. Get out of the line of fire. Get ready to run. He willed the words at her.
But Rachel took a firm grip on whatever it was she held in her hand...a piece of the cement sundial, he realized. Heavy, capable of doing damage.
But not in her hands. He didn’t want her taking any risks that might encourage Attwood to fire. In the instant Attwood glanced back at her, he shook his head slightly, hoping she got the message.
Don’t. Don’t do anything, not yet. Just keep talking. He thought the words so strongly it seemed he could see his message flying through the air to her.
“James, please stop this nonsense.” She’d managed to keep her voice almost normal, and Clint felt a spurt of pride in her. She wasn’t one to give up or get hysterical, not his Rachel.
Ignoring her, Attwood spoke to Clint. “You’ve become a problem. I thought, having hired you, I’d be able to control what you found out. I had to do something when the file was copied or it would have looked suspicious if anyone found out. But you pushed too far.”
“That was a miscalculation on your part, wasn’t it?” Antagonize the man? It was hard to figure how he’d respond, but Clint had to try. “But then, you’ve miscalculated right along, haven’t you? You thought that agreement you all signed way back when would get you what you wanted. You didn’t see it coming back to bite you in the end.”