Sighs Matter

by Marianne Stillings

  Taking another step back, she said, “You’re not going to kill me, Mort. You can’t.” She wished she was sure about that, but she’d bluffed her way through auditions, maybe she could bluff her way out of death.

  She took another step back. True, she was no spring chicken, but neither was he. If she could make it to the woods, she might have a chance, if he didn’t shoot her in the back before she got that far.

  Mort licked his lips again, and pulled the hammer back on the gun. “I told you to hold still!”

  Taking another step back, she said, “And let you shoot me? I’m old, but I’m not stupid, Mortie. Besides, the police know all about you and your illegal disarticulations. Killing me won’t do you a speck of good.”

  Over the barrel of the gun, his eyes widened. “Cops? The cops know? But how . . .”

  His voice quivered. Putting his palm to his forehead, he let his gaze drop, and with it, his arm. Ah. Just the opening she was looking for.

  Sadie turned on her heel and made a dash for the trees. Perhaps dash wasn’t the right word, not with her hip being stiff and achy as it was, but hopefully fast enough to outrun a badly aimed bullet.

  Just as she reached the first trees, she heard Mort yell after her. “Sadie? Where . . . Sadie! I warned you! Gadzooks, woman!”

  But Sadie kept her eyes on the darkest part of the thicket. With her head down and her legs pumping, her purse strap firm in the crook of her arm, she trudged over the rough ground like a bargain hunter in search of the discount table at Bloomingdale’s. Over snapping twigs and sharp rocks, through scratchy bramble and low branches that grasped at her sweater, she didn’t so much as glance over her shoulder. Not when she heard him shouting curses. Not when she heard him come crashing through the bushes. Not even when she heard the gun explode . . .

  * * *

  Claire towel-dried her hair and quickly dressed. God, she was absolutely starving. Great sex would do that to a person, she thought, grinning to herself as she slipped into her sandals.

  She was a little surprised Aunt Sadie wasn’t up and about yet. The clock on the bedside table read ten-seventeen. Hmm. As long as Claire had lived with her aunt, Sadie had never been one to lounge in bed of a morning.

  “. . . no wire hangers! . . . no wire hangers! . . .”

  “Damn. How am I gonna hang up my jacket?”

  Claire turned to see Taylor standing in her bedroom doorway, a charming grin on his oh-so-handsome face.

  “Yeah,” Claire laughed, “he’s really on a roll this morning.”

  Taylor cocked his head. “You’d think all that racket would wake up your aunt.”

  Claire nodded. “Yeah. You’d . . . think.” In the back of her mind, tiny wheels began to slowly turn. “Her truck was in the garage when we got back, right?”

  “Yes,” he said, leaning his hip against the doorjamb. “Winslow has an officer doing a drive-by every thirty to forty minutes. He hasn’t reported anything unusual.”

  “ ’Kay,” she said absently. “And the door was locked.”

  He straightened. “Does she normally sleep this late?”

  Claire shook her head.

  Backing out of her doorway, Taylor headed down the short hallway to Sadie’s room. Behind the closed door, Hitch was screaming his birdy guts out.

  “. . . Detective McKennitt . . . that’ll do pig . . . that’ll do . . .”

  Taylor snorted. “Little bastard’s got quite a repertoire.”

  “Doesn’t he though.” Claire knocked on the door. “Aunt Sadie? Aunt Sadie, are you awake?”

  With a quick look at Taylor, she turned the handle and slowly opened the door, sending Hitch to flapping and squawking in his cage.

  The little room was neat as a pin, as usual. The bed was made, and the window stood open, letting in a cool morning breeze.

  Hurrying to Sadie’s bathroom, she knocked on the door, then opened it. Empty. A damp bath towel hung from the hook by the tub.

  Taylor came up behind her. Turning, she placed her palms on his chest. “She was here this morning. There’s still a little water around the drain in the bathtub.”

  “Maybe she’s out with the bees.”

  Claire let her gaze flit around the room until it came to rest on the chair in front of Sadie’s dressing table, the empty chair.

  “Her purse,” Claire rushed, cold blood suddenly coursing into her heart, making her stomach cramp, her skin prickle. “She always sets her purse on that little chair.”

  “Stay here,” Taylor ordered. “I’ll check the house and property.”

  As he ran from the room and down the stairs, Claire felt panic thicken her senses. Sadie was here, somewhere. She must be. Nothing could happen to Aunt Sadie, nothing.

  Pacing the room, Claire went over and over possible scenarios, but nothing she could come up with fit the situation. Sadie wouldn’t take her purse to go check on the bees, or sweep the barn, or take a stroll down by the pond.

  In his cage, Hitch paced back and forth along his perch.

  “. . . I see dead people . . . dead people . . . uh-oh . . .”

  Sadie kept her head down, and her feet moving. Her knees felt like Jell-O—not like it was when you let it set overnight, but Jell-O after about an hour.

  Another blast zipped past her, missing her by a mile. Handguns were notoriously poor weapons when it came to hitting the mark at a distance, especially in the hands of a Nervous Nelly like Mort. She’d learned that the time she did that guest appearance on Dragnet, by God.

  Reaching the shelter of the thicket, she ducked down as far as her stiff back would let her, and veered off to the right, toward the road.

  Another gunshot sang out through the trees, sounding much, much closer this time. In fact, it sounded like it came from a different direction altogether! Why, the old fart was faster on his feet than she’d imagined! She’d better get a move on if she expected to get out of this little predicament alive.

  Scurrying through the undergrowth, she realized minutes had passed in silence. Instead of Mort’s curses and gunfire, she heard the revving of an engine. A moment later, the squeal of tires filled the air as the Caddy left the glade and hit the pavement. Through the rough tree trunks that nearly obscured her view, Sadie could barely make out the black car tearing off up the road like the proverbial bat out of hell.

  So. He’d gone and left her out here in the middle of nowhere, had he? Probably expected her to die. Well, she wouldn’t!

  Straightening her spine, she scoffed and turned, and ran smack into a solid wall of muscle and bone. She gasped for air as strong hands took hold of her arms.

  Her first thought was that Mortie hadn’t taken off. So who was in the car . . .

  Raising her chin, she looked into her captor’s face, and gasped again. Why, it wasn’t Mortie a’tall.

  “Hey, Sadie,” he said, smiling down into her eyes. “You okay?”

  “Fl-Flynn?” she muttered, on what little breath she had in her lungs. “Flynn Corrigan? What on God’s green earth are you doing out here?”

  Oh, my, she thought. This could be very good, or very bad.

  Releasing her arms, he said, “You’re quite a woman, Sadie Lancaster.”

  “I know. Now, what are you doing here?”

  He shrugged, gently took her arm, and began escorting her back the way she’d come. “Followed you,” he said. “I’ve sort of been watching your farm. When I saw you leave with Mortimer this morning, I trailed along behind. Good thing, too, considering.”

  “You followed us?” She narrowed one eye on him. “How come Mort didn’t see you? He looked in the rearview mirror every two seconds.”

  Flynn smiled again, and those ice blue eyes glittered. “I’m real good at what I do.”

  And just what might that be, exactly? He’d been watching her farm? That could either be very good, or very bad.

  As they walked, she noticed that big fence again, off to her right, buried deep in the thicket. Now that she’d had a chance to t
hink about it, she realized where it must lead.

  Taking in a fortifying breath, she figured she might as well get this show on the road. Flynn was either going to help her, or not. She was all run out, so the jig was up, no matter how you looked at it. “Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Yes, but the reception down in the valley is pretty iffy.” He tilted his head. “Who do you want to call?”

  Giving him the once-over, she decided to tell him the truth, everything, at least as much as she knew of everything. “I hope you like surprises, Flynn, because this one’s a doozy.”

  As she explained about Mortie, the disarticulation, Detective McKennitt, and the place with the gate Mortie had taken her to that time, Flynn remained quiet. When she finished, she said, “So I need to use your cell phone to call Detective McKennitt to let him know I found the gate.”

  Flynn stopped walking and turned her to face him. “You say you found the gate?”

  She gestured toward the trees. “See back in there? You can just make out a chain-link fence. If you follow it a little more north, I’m betting you’ll find that gate.”

  Flynn peered into the thicket, pursed his lips, then blew out a long breath. “I’ll be damned.” Nodding slowly, he reached under his jacket. But instead of pulling out a cell phone, he pulled out a revolver.

  “Well, Sadie. I hope you like surprises, too, because now it’s my turn.”

  Chapter 19

  Ransom

  What you did after you walked some.

  Kevin LeRoy’s ass was numb. He’d been sitting in the damn bushes for an hour, slapping at bugs, trying to keep his legs from going to sleep while he watched the farmhouse. But so far, that handyman’s truck hadn’t budged, and there was no way he was going to approach Claire with that prick anywhere on the property.

  LeRoy had found a damn good spot near the blackberry vines at the back of the house from which he could observe, yet remain unobserved. He could see the kitchen door and the barnyard, and even catch conversation, when the wind was with him.

  Smacking his forearm, he cursed every mosquito on the planet. Though he’d had to park a mile away and hike to the farm, he was glad he’d been so cautious. Some PHPD cruiser kept driving by every half hour or so, checking the place out. Something was going on, and he really wanted to know what.

  “. . . and keep the doors locked.” A man’s voice, familiar. LeRoy peered through the branches. McKennitt, emerging from the kitchen door. And Claire. He cocked his head to listen.

  “Don’t go outside for any reason,” McKennitt warned. “And don’t open the door to anyone . . . especially . . .”

  What was that? Especially who? Shit, he missed it.

  “. . . We’ll find her. I promise.”

  Hmm. Perhaps that was information he could use to his advantage.

  Then McKennitt put his arms around Claire and kissed her. He felt his fingers curl tightly into his palms. He knew it, he just knew it. Handyman, his numb ass.

  As McKennitt got in his truck and tore off, Claire closed the kitchen door.

  When the truck was out of sight, LeRoy stood, brushing dirt and leaves from his clothes. His right leg was tingly, but a little exercise should clear that up.

  Moving silently across the small side yard, he edged up close to the house. The day was heating up, the upstairs windows were open. He could climb up there, but he was wearing the wrong shoes, and besides, that cop car might come along when he was halfway up or down, and that would be awkward to explain.

  He thought he heard a noise, like somebody talking, then he remembered the old lady’s parrot. Must be Hutch or Dutch or whatever in the hell the bird’s name was, chattering mindlessly away.

  The closer he got to the open window, the louder the bird got. Too bad he couldn’t get in and kill the little son of a bitch. That’d shake everybody up. Not only would he be getting back at Claire for spurning him, it would escalate her fear factor.

  “. . . men are bastards . . .”

  Yeah, tell me about it, beak brain.

  “. . . you talkin’ to me? . . .”

  Parrot au vin, he thought. Slowly roasted over an open fire. He could have the little fart plucked and barbecued before—

  “. . . Detective McKennitt . . . men are bastards . . . Detective McKennitt . . .”

  LeRoy froze, then slowly backed behind a large rhododendron. There must be some kind of mistake, or maybe it was a joke. That bird could not possibly have said . . .

  But Claire had told him the little shithead was smart, repeating nearly everything it ever heard. Still . . .

  “. . . you talkin’ to me? . . . McKennitt . . . Detective . . . shut up, Hitch! . . .”

  Well, now. If that didn’t just change everything.

  She’d not only spurned him, she’d betrayed him. Worse, she’d betrayed his kids. And after he’d told her about Brenda, after he’d practically gotten down on his knees and begged Claire to help him win back custody of his kids.

  Rubbing his temples, he fought to keep his anger under control. Damn. How could she? How could she!

  Did the cops know about the harvesting? Was that why they’d enlisted her help? If they thought they could use her to try and trap him, they were every bit as stupid as they looked.

  All the way back to his car, he thought of Claire and what he’d do to her when he got her alone. Without her help, he’d lose his children. After all his hard work, after all his sacrifices, he’d lose his kids because the stupid bitch had betrayed him!

  She needed to be punished for that, needed to be shown how painful that kind of loss could be. Her duplicity would cost her; the price would be high. But first, she needed to be taught a lesson. A good, hard lesson.

  As he slid behind the wheel of the car, he pulled out the cell phone he’d copped from some guy’s pocket a while back. Adjusting the rearview mirror, he looked into his own eyes for a moment, feeling like the sucker he was.

  Connecting with the Port Henry PD, he said, “I’d like to speak with Detective McKennitt.”

  “What does this concern, sir?”

  “I have information on the Ketterer murder.”

  “I see. It would be best if you could come in—”

  “No,” he rushed. “No, I just want to talk to him. I want to remain anonymous.”

  “All right. I can take the information, if you like, and pass it on to one of them.”

  “One of them? You have two Detective McKennitts?”

  “Yes, sir. One’s with the Seattle PD, and the other works out of Port Henry.”

  No shit. “Are they related or something? Father and son? Brothers?”

  There was a momentary pause, then, “Did you wish to leave some information about the Ketterer case, sir?”

  He ended the call. Two. Two McKennitts, and one of them was Claire’s boyfriend. Well, if nothing else, it confirmed the parrot’s idiotic chatter.

  Think, think, think.

  Yes, okay, yes. If he couldn’t get into her house, maybe he could coax her to come outside. Of course he could. It might take a bit of doing, but he was smart, and more than that, he was clever.

  Grinning, he cranked the ignition and put the SUV in gear. A phone book. He needed a phone book.

  How much did the cops know? he wondered. Ah, hell, it didn’t matter. He’d just change his identity again and start over somewhere else. But Crystal and Josh were another matter. Damn Claire for doing this to him!

  Well, the game wasn’t over yet. She would help him get his kids back, whether she wanted to or not.

  Claire stood in the silence of her bedroom, gazing out the window at the stars twinkling high above in the indigo sky. A wisp of cloud veiled the moon, heralding the arrival of fog in the morning.

  “Please be all right,” she whispered to the darkness. “Aunt Sadie. Please, please be all right.”

  She glanced at her watch. Half past ten. Taylor had been gone all day and evening. He’d called her several times, but so far, no new informat
ion.

  Her phone rang. “Yes, hello, Taylor? Any news?”

  “Not yet,” he said, his voice weary, yet somehow reassuring. “Try not to worry, okay? We’re on it, and won’t rest until we have her home again.”

  It was suddenly too much. She caved. Hot tears scalded her cheeks, and she hurried to wipe them away. “I understand,” she whispered. “Do you have any leads at all?”

  “Mortimer’s still missing, too,” he said. “We think they’re together. Maybe he came by to talk to her, they went for a drive, and the car broke down. That’s probably all it is.”

  Wiping her tears on her sleeve, she said, “Sure. That’s probably all it is.”

  “Oh, and we have a positive ID on Thursby. His real name’s Kevin LeRoy. We think he’s Mortimer’s partner.”

  “I see.” Adam. A criminal. Bizarre, but not totally unexpected, given his actions of late.

  “I meant to tell you all this earlier,” Taylor continued, “but we’ve been busy following up leads all day. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I understand. It’s hard to believe, about Adam, I mean, but when I think about it, it makes the most sense.”

  She walked back to the window and stared out into the nothingness. “He ran me off the road, stole my stuff, tried to burn down the barn, and poisoned me.” Shaking her head, she said, “Why? I didn’t know a thing about his business with Mort.”

  Taylor blew out a long sigh. “That wasn’t it. Based on the reports I’m getting from Portland, it’s been his MO when he wants something, especially from a woman. He thought by secretly intimidating you, you’d turn to him for strength. Even marry him.”

  “But why me?” Her throat hurt from choking back more tears. She needed to be strong, needed to keep it together. It wouldn’t do her aunt any good for her to fall apart.

  “You’ll have a chance to ask him when I catch the son of a bitch,” Taylor said. “For your own safety, I’d like to have Winslow bring you down to the station.”

  “No,” she said. “No, I’m staying here in case Aunt Sadie comes back. The house is locked. I’m safe, and as you say, you’ve got the cruiser coming by every half hour or so. I’ll be fine.”