by Paula Graves
“Just lousy,” Owen answered.
“Sorry to hear that.” The voice on the other end of the line suddenly sounded like Quinn. “Thought I said I’d call you.”
“You did. But we have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why exactly do you think Tara is still in danger, when you have to know her bosses have already changed the details of the project?”
* * *
SHEFFIELD TAVERN WAS less a bar and more a restaurant that happened to serve liquor at a bar in the back. On this Monday afternoon, the bar crowd was laid-back and sparse, though it would probably pick up later in the evening.
Archer Trask had agreed to meet Maddox Heller for an early dinner at the tavern more out of curiosity than any real desire to deal with the Campbell Cove Security agent, given the way his previous day had gone. But the chance that Heller might provide some needed information about what, exactly, had sent Tara Bentley and Owen Stiles on the run again was worth putting up with bar food and average beer.
To his surprise, Heller brought his wife, Iris, a tall, slim woman with wavy black hair and coffee-brown eyes. She smiled at Trask, extending her hand as Heller introduced them.
As Trask shook Iris’s hand, he felt an odd tingle in his hand, almost as if static electricity had sparked between them. But if Iris noticed, she didn’t show it.
Trask took a seat across the table from Heller and his pretty wife, looking curiously from one to the other. “I’m wondering why you asked me to meet you here.”
“Alexander Quinn requested that I contact you about something that’s arisen in the Robert Mallory murder case,” Heller said. “He’s on other business, or he’d have asked to speak with you himself.”
Something about this meeting didn’t quite feel right, but Trask decided to play along as if he weren’t suspicious. “Not sure there’s much point talking to y’all, considering you weren’t there.”
“Actually, there is.” Heller bent down and picked up the worn leather satchel he’d brought with him to the tavern. He unbuckled the latch and flipped the satchel cover open. “You see, my wife, among her many other talents, is an artist. And we’ve begun to use her talent in some of our cases where we work with witnesses—”
“She’s a sketch artist, you mean,” Trask interrupted, beginning to lose his patience. His day had been long already, and the rest of the week stretched out in front of him like a series of endless frustrations and dead ends. “But unless she saw who shot Robert Mallory, I don’t see how she can help us.”
“Has anyone told you what Tara Bentley says happened to her the day of her wedding?”
Trask tried not to show his sudden spark of interest, but he couldn’t help sitting up a little straighter. “No. I assume she and her partner in crime told their lawyer something about their disappearance, but he invoked the lawyer-client privilege thing, so we’re still in the dark. Damn inconvenient, that. Kind of makes it hard to do my job, you know?”
“She was kidnapped,” Heller said bluntly. “Two men in a white cargo van. Owen Stiles happened upon them in the middle of it and was knocked out and thrown into the van, as well.”
Trask stared at him in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Yeah, that was about the reaction Owen and Tara were expecting,” Heller drawled, looking so disappointed that Trask started feeling a little guilty for his instant reaction.
Then he got angry about feeling guilty. “It’s a ridiculous story. Did they happen to tell you why someone would kidnap a bride on her wedding day when, oh, by the way, the groom ended up facedown in his own blood in the groom’s room?”
“They don’t know why. That’s part of the problem.”
“How did they get away?”
“Their captors miscalculated when they bound Tara’s hands. They bound them in front of her with duct tape rather than behind her, and she was able to undo the tape around Owen’s hands. He freed her, and that gave them time to prepare for a blitz attack on their captors when they stopped and opened the doors to transfer them wherever they were planning to take them.”
“What then?” Trask asked, glancing at Heller’s wife to see how she was reacting to the story Heller was telling. She had a placid look in her eyes, tinged by a hint of jaded knowing that suggested she’d seen and heard far stranger things in her life.
“They were able to get away, although the kidnappers pursued them in the woods for a while. Finally, the kidnappers retreated, and Tara and Owen found an old abandoned cabin for shelter from the rain that night.”
“What then?”
“They got in touch with us, and we got them a lawyer. You know the rest.” Heller’s expression was completely neutral, which in his case was a tell. There was a little more to the story about how Bentley and Stiles got from point A to point B, but Heller wasn’t going to share. Trask supposed in the long run, it wasn’t that big a deal. What he really wanted to know was why they changed their minds about turning themselves in.
“They decided against turning themselves in while they were right outside the police department,” Trask said. “Why?”
“Because yesterday morning, when they showed up to turn themselves in, they spotted one of the men who kidnapped them entering the sheriff’s department, dressed in a deputy’s uniform. Alexander Quinn saw the man, too, and he described him in detail to Iris. She made this sketch.” Heller pulled a sheet of paper out of his satchel and laid it on the table in front of Trask.
Trask looked at the sketch. It was extremely well drawn, full of details and nuance. He recognized the face immediately.
“You know him, don’t you?” Heller asked, his tone urgent.
Trask looked up at Heller, too stunned to hide his reaction. “Yes, I do.”
“Who is he?”
Trask shoved the sketch back across the table, his stomach roiling. “This is bull. Just like the story Bentley and Stiles shoveled your way.”
“Who is the man in the sketch?” Heller persisted.
“Maddox,” Iris said in a warning tone, clutching his arm.
Something passed between Heller and his wife, and the man’s bulldog demeanor softened. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle with a hint of sympathetic understanding. “You obviously recognize the man. Even if the story Tara and Owen told is bull, like you think, there must be a reason they chose this man as the scapegoat. Who is he?”
“He’s my brother,” Trask growled, his stomach starting to ache. “All right? He’s my brother.”
Chapter Eleven
The long pause on the other end of the line only convinced Owen that he and Tara were right. Quinn had his own agenda, as always. He and Tara might be valuable pawns in this particular chess game, but pawns they were, nevertheless.
“It doesn’t matter whether or not her bosses have changed the details of the project,” Quinn said finally. “What matters is letting your opponent continue to believe you’re better armed than he is.”
“What does that even mean?” Owen asked, trying not to lose his temper. Getting angry wouldn’t get him any closer to uncovering Quinn’s motives.
Tara put her hand on Owen’s arm. “It means Mr. Quinn wants the people who kidnapped me to think there’s a reason I’m not rushing back to civilization with my story.”
“There is a reason. One of the guys who kidnapped us is working for the cops.”
“They’ll be wondering what information we’re trying to protect by keeping you hidden,” Quinn explained. “They’ll want to know what that information might be, and they’ll take risks to find out.”
“But how does that help us if we don’t know who they are?” Tara asked.
“We know who one of them is,” Quinn corrected after a brief pause. “I just got a message from Maddox Heller. I don’t be
lieve you know this, but his wife is working for us as a freelance sketch artist. I gave her the description of the deputy you say kidnapped the two of you.”
“You saw him?” Tara asked.
“Yes.”
“Unbelievable,” Owen muttered. “I barely got a glimpse of him myself. How did you get a good enough look to give anyone a description?”
“Close observation is what I do. It’s what I’ve done for decades now.” Quinn’s tone was abrupt. “The point is, Heller showed Archer Trask the sketch Iris made, and now we have an ID on the man who kidnapped you.”
“Who is he?” Owen asked.
“He’s Virgil Trask. Archer Trask’s older brother.”
“Trask identified him?” Tara looked at Owen, her eyes wide.
“Reluctantly, according to Heller. I haven’t briefed him yet. He left a text for me on my other phone.”
“Unbelievable,” Tara muttered. “The kidnapper is the brother of the cop trying to bring us in.”
“This could end up working in our favor,” Quinn said. “Their relationship is going to force Trask to either play this investigation strictly by the book or risk being accused of a cover-up. He knows it, and he knows we know it, too.”
“But is he going to take seriously the possibility that his brother is involved with a terrorist plot?” Owen asked.
“It doesn’t matter. He knows we’re taking it seriously, and we have the clout to make waves if he doesn’t at least explore the possibility.”
Tara shook her head. “What if he takes himself off the case? Won’t that be the protocol if his brother is now a suspect?”
“If it were a large department, yes. But the Bagley County Sheriff’s Department has only three investigators, and one of those is on maternity leave. The other one is Virgil Trask.”
“Great. He’s an investigator, too?”
“We’re on top of this.” Quinn’s tone was firm and, if Owen was reading him correctly, impatient. “I’ll call back before ten. You continue lying low.” He ended the call abruptly.
“Your boss is a sweetheart, isn’t he?” Tara’s tone was bone dry.
Owen looked at the phone display. The battery was getting low. He dug in Quinn’s duffel for one of the portable chargers Quinn had packed. As he plugged in the phone to charge, he looked up at Tara, waving the portable charger in front of him. “This is why we need to trust him. He’s always prepared. He’s always a step ahead of whatever problem he faces.”
“You make him sound like a superhero.”
“No, just a man who’s seen the worst the world has to offer and knows what it takes to face it.” Owen pushed the phone aside and shifted position until he was face-to-face with Tara, their knees touching. The sense of déjà vu made him smile. “Remember the last time we shared a tent like this?”
The tension lines in Tara’s face relaxed. A smile played on her lips. “The summer before we started high school. We sat just like this in the tent and swore we’d be friends forever.”
He smiled back at her. “High school should have posed a problem for us. You, the cute little cheerleader with all the popular boys in love with you, and me, the socially awkward computer geek...”
She reached across the space between them and took his hand. “You, the brilliant, funny, kindhearted friend who never, ever let me down.”
He twined his fingers through hers, his pulse picking up speed until he could hear it thundering in his ears, nearly eclipsing the steady syncopation of rain on top of the tent. “Then why do you think I’ll let you down if things change between us?”
She stared at him in shock, as if he’d just reached across the space between them and slapped her. She pulled her hand back from his. “You know how I feel about this.”
“I know you’re afraid of things changing between us.”
“You should be, too.” She had turned away from him and now sat with her shoulders hunched. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You wouldn’t be without me. Don’t you see that? You’d just be with me in a different way. A deeper way.”
She shot a glare at him over her shoulder. “You don’t know that’s how it would go. What if we discovered we weren’t good together that way?” She shook her head fiercely. “I can’t risk that.”
Owen didn’t push her. It would be useless when she had so clearly closed her mind to the idea that they could have something more than just friendship.
He pulled his jacket on like armor, protecting himself against both the dropping temperature outside and the distinct chill that had grown inside the tent with his tentative attempt to address the ongoing sexual tension between them.
But he didn’t know how much longer he could keep denying what he felt for her. Maybe she was happy living this half life, but he was all too quickly reaching the point where something had to give.
* * *
ARCHER TRASK POURED himself two fingers of Maker’s Mark bourbon and stared at the amber liquor with an ache in his soul. It would be one thing if he could just laugh off the allegation against Virgil with full assurance, but he couldn’t really do that, could he? Virgil might be wearing a badge now, but he’d spent most of his youth caught up in one mess or another.
Their father’s money had spared him the worst consequences of his reckless spirit, but even after Virgil left behind his teenage years, there had been whispers of questionable behavior, hadn’t there? Complaints from prisoners of rough treatment. A tendency to rub some of his fellow deputies the wrong way.
But getting involved in a kidnapping?
Archer swirled the bourbon around in the tumbler, his mouth feeling suddenly parched. Just a sip wouldn’t hurt. A sip and the burn of the whiskey to drive away the chill that seemed to seep right through to his bones.
But as one of the sheriff’s department’s three investigators, he was always on call, especially with Tammy Sloan out on maternity leave. He couldn’t afford to show up on a call with liquor on his breath.
He pushed the glass away and picked up his cell phone. Virgil’s number wasn’t exactly first on his speed dial. In fact, as brothers, they weren’t much alike at all. Trask had always chalked that fact up to having different mothers—his father’s first wife had died suddenly of an aneurysm when Virgil was a small boy. Maybe that loss so early in his life had led to his wild ways when he reached adolescence. Or maybe Virgil had just been one of those people who could only learn by making his own mistakes.
Trask pushed the number for his brother and waited for Virgil to answer. Three rings later, Virgil’s gravelly voice rumbled across the line. “What’s up, Archie?”
Trask gritted his teeth at the nickname. “Just haven’t talked to you in a while. We always seem to miss each other at work.”
“You can thank Tammy Sloan for that. Squeezing out another kid and leaving us to pick up her slack.”
“What are you working on these days?”
“Car theft ring over in Campbell Cove, mostly. You’ve got that rich kid’s murder, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Wonder why you didn’t catch that call? You’re senior in rank.”
“I was off that weekend. Out of town.”
“Yeah? Where’d you go?”
“Camping up near Kingdom Come. Me and Ty Miller. Thought we’d see if we could pull a few rainbow trout out of Looney Creek, but we got skunked.”
“Rainbows won’t be stocked in Looney Creek for another month.”
“Reckon that’s why we got skunked.” Virgil laughed. “Why the sudden interest in my itinerary?”
“Just wondering why you weren’t the one called to the church. It’s turning out to be a real puzzle.”
“So I hear. Grapevine says the girl and her boy on the side nearly turned themselves in to you yesterday morning but someth
ing spooked them away. Any idea what?”
“No,” Trask lied, his stomach aching. “Not a clue.”
“If you need a little help, let me know. This car theft ring ain’t going anywhere anytime soon, and I could spare some time for my little brother.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Trask realized he was gripping his phone so hard his fingers were starting to hurt. He loosened his grip and added, “We should meet up for lunch soon. Catch up with each other.”
“Sounds like a real good idea. I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll set up a time. Listen, I hate to rush you off the phone, but I’ve got some catch-up paperwork to do—”
“Understood. Talk to you tomorrow.” Trask hung up the phone and stared at the glimmering amber liquid in the tumbler still sitting in front of him.
Just one sip wouldn’t hurt, would it?
He shoved himself up from the table and grabbed the tumbler. At the sink, he poured the glass of whiskey down the drain. The fumes rising from the drain smelled vaguely of charred oak and caramel.
He wasn’t sure what his brother had been doing the day of Robert Mallory’s murder, but he was pretty sure Virgil was lying about going camping with Ty Miller up near Kingdom Come State Park.
The question was, why was he lying? To give himself an alibi for something? Or to give an alibi to Ty Miller, his longtime best friend and former partner in crime?
One way or another, Trask had to find out where Virgil had really been the day of the Mallory murder.
No matter where the investigation took him.
* * *
IT WAS CHILDISH to blame her mother for dying. Only a foolish little girl would sit at the end of her mother’s bed and curse under her breath at a woman who hadn’t planned to drive in front of a truck with brake trouble. And Tara couldn’t afford to be a foolish little girl anymore. She was the woman of the house now, or at least as much a woman as a girl of nearly eleven could be.
She was starting a new school this year, and Mama was supposed to go with her to sixth grade orientation. Daddy would be useless, grumbling his way through whatever presentation the teachers had planned, muttering things like “shouldn’t be coddling young’uns this way” and “when I was this age, I was working in the fields all day, school or no school.”