Find Me

by Debra Webb

  Frustrated at her ill-preparedness, she grabbed her bag and slammed the door. She climbed the hill to the sidewalk and scanned the shops. Rite Aid. The chain pharmacy would have sunglasses. Maybe even gloves. She'd frozen her ass, toes, and fingers off today.

  Sarah crossed the street and entered the pharmacy. She glanced around, didn't spot any loitering reporters, and headed for the turnstile rack of sunglasses at the end of the snack aisle. Looking over her options, she checked for the best fit. Too big; too eighties; too… she made a face… bizarre. Then she found just the right ones. Slid them into place. Perfect. Black, wrapped around the face. Lots of camouflage. Exactly what she needed.

  Now for gloves. She wandered the aisles, found some black woolly mittens with a waterproof outer shell, and headed for the check-out counter. "Is that all today, ma'am?"

  "Yes." Sarah scrounged for her wallet, then looked to the cashier for a total.

  "You're that reporter woman from that magazine, aren't you?" The woman eyed her speculatively from behind big pink-framed eyeglasses. She could be someone's grandmother, silky gray hair, outfitted in a paisley print blouse. But the look she was giving Sarah right now was anything but grandmotherly.

  Sarah did a quick sleazeball check around the store, then pasted on a smile for the cashier who looked not at all like a fan. "Yes."

  "I hear you think one of us is responsible for that poor girl's murder."

  Sarah wasn't about to go there. "The chief of police is preparing for a press conference right outside." She gestured to the street. "I'm sure he'll have the latest news on the case and any possible suspects."

  The cashier's pale blue eyes narrowed behind the glasses.

  "But you're not working with the police. You're running around talking to people on your own."

  "I'm looking into the case, yes." Was it too much to ask to get a total here?

  "Well"—the cashier leaned across the counter—"if you're smart you'll talk to the minister over at Living Word Church."

  Anticipation of a new lead spiked. Another check to ensure no one was close by. "What makes you think I should talk to him?"

  "Valerie Gerard attended that church her whole life." The cashier looked around as if she'd decided that what she had to say next shouldn't be overheard. "Then, last year she up and stopped going. When her folks tried to persuade her to go with 'em at Christmas, she flat-out refused."

  Lots of teenagers ticked church services off their must-do lists as soon as they were old enough to make their own choices. "It's not unusual for teenagers to decide church isn't worth their time," Sarah reminded her. She'd made that decision by the time she was sixteen but her aunt hadn't let her off the hook until college.

  The lady shook her head. "Valerie wasn't like that. She was a good girl. Refusing to go to church was not like her at all. Her mama worried about it for a while but then she figured it was probably the college influence." The cashier hit the total button. "I don't believe it, though. Uh-uh. There's more to it than that. Nineteen forty-eight."

  Sarah handed her a twenty. "What's this minister's name?"

  "Christopher Mahaney." She took Sarah's money. "It was probably his doing—that her folks believed she'd gone off to college and left God behind and all."

  Something else the chief hadn't mentioned. A new name to add to Sarah's talk-to list. "Thanks." She dropped the change into her wallet. As an afterthought she pulled a card from her bag and offered it to the cashier. "You call me if you think of anything else that might be helpful."

  The lady nodded. "I'll be glad to." She pointed a disgusted look toward the street. "There's something rotten in this town and I think it's that so-called man of God." She leaned toward Sarah again. "The old devil goes after ministers, too. Sometimes he's successful."

  Sarah thanked her again and headed for the door. She ripped the tags from her purchases and slid the sunglasses into place, then tugged on the gloves and stepped onto the sidewalk.

  More locals awaiting news had gathered at the library. Sarah slipped into the fringes and tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

  Snatches of conversation from the locals filtered through the rumble. Some folks believed Alicia Appleton's body had been discovered. Others insisted she had been found alive.

  Ah, there was a mention of Sarah. Troublemaker. Had Rachel Appleton in tears. Tried to force a confession out of Bart Harvey's boy.

  Oh, wow. Maybe she was the devil that kid had spoken of.

  The cashier's mention of the devil nudged Sarah.

  People around here needed to wake up. This killer was someone they likely knew. Assuredly not the devil. Not that she believed in the devil.

  Silence fell over the crowd and a sudden forward surge announced the chief had made his appearance.

  Sarah tiptoed to see above the shoulders of the men in front of her. Mayor Patterson stood next to the chief, his polished suit and deep navy tie making him look particularly distinguished in comparison to the chief's khakis and uniform-style coat.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press…"

  Sarah settled onto the soles of her Converses and waited for the important parts. The whole "I appreciate your support" and all that jazz she could do without.

  Finally he got to the real news.

  The silence that hung in the air hummed with tension.

  Even Sarah stretched up onto her toes once more.

  The chief didn't spell out the details of the evidence but he informed the crowd that there was reason to believe that the person responsible for Valerie Gerard's death was an intimate.

  Sarah rolled her eyes. Come on, Chief, she silently urged. Tell them they'd better start paying more attention to what their neighbors are doing. Keep their young girls off the street after dark, et cetera.

  "That's not very nice," a too familiar male voice whispered in her ear.

  Sarah bolted forward.

  Strong hands grabbed her shoulders in the nick of time to prevent her bumping into the guy in front of her. Sarah whipped around and came face-to-face with Kale Conner.

  He put a finger to his lips and pointed to the chief.

  Annoyed as hell, she turned her attention back to the library steps where the chief was assuring the crowd that no stone would be left unturned. How original. And, finally, he urged all citizens to be cooperative and aware. Hard questions would need to be asked—and answered.

  Reporters started firing questions and Sarah was ready to go while they were distracted. She skirted the traitor standing behind her.

  "Newton."

  She glared at Conner. "Shhh!"

  "Sorry." He started after her. "You're leaving?"

  "Yes."

  That he continued to follow her to the corner and down the side street to the parking area she'd used cranked up her irritation. Kale Conner was one of those guys who wanted everybody to like him. The kind who couldn't deal with the idea that someone held ill will toward him.

  Tough.

  She avoided the icy patches, opting for the crunchy snow instead. The cold, wet stuff poked into her shoes and up her pants legs all over again, but she didn't care.

  She had a list of people to interview; Melody Harvey, for one. A man of the cloth named Mahaney, for another.

  At her car, she faced her stalker. "What do you want, Conner?"

  He seemed temporarily at a loss for words. Turning his hands palms up, he shrugged. "I thought you were going back to the inn. I went there looking for you but—"

  Shoving her cell phone in his face, she waved it back and forth. "Ever heard of using one of these?" If he was going to attempt telling her he'd wanted to let her know about the press conference and couldn't find her he could forget about it.

  "My cell died on me and I don't have one of those car chargers. I—"

  "You lied to me. Again," she emphasized. "Have a nice evening."

  She tried to open the car door; he braced his hand on it. "I was looking for you so I could tell you about t
he press conference."

  "Right. Like you didn't know when we were at the chiefs office."

  Confusion furrowed the handsome features of his face into a questioning frown. "You think I knew about this?"

  "You knew. The chief knew. And so did the mayor." When he would have argued, she held up a hand. "I know how these things work. You don't throw together a media delivery of this size without some prior planning."

  He raised both hands surrender-style. "I swear on my mother's beef stew, which is what we're having for dinner tonight by the way, that I didn't know."

  Funny. "No offense to your mother's beef stew, but I don't believe you."

  "Ask the chief. Whether you believe it or not, he had no idea he would be announcing this news until about forty or forty-five minutes ago. Right after we left his office."

  "Get real, Conner. I have things to do." She jerked at the door but didn't get it open before he, again, blocked her effort.

  "The Bureau is sending a profiler to help with the case. He insisted the chief get the word out to set the stage for whatever he's got planned."

  Sarah hesitated, her hand still on the door latch. Knowing the Bureau, she could see that happening.

  She turned back to Conner. "The Bureau set this in motion and had the chief read their script, is that what you're saying?"

  He nodded. "It's the God's truth."

  Maybe she was a fool for believing him, but the scenario, with the FBI component thrown in, was believable.

  "What's the profiler's name?" While she fully understood that there was basically zero probability it would be him— that rotten, low-life, bloodsucking, sorry-ass bastard—some part of her still feared it would be and braced. Quantico had profilers out the wazoo. The odds were astronomical. It wouldn't be him. Too big a coincidence—to be a coincidence.

  "Let me think." Conner concentrated on the question a moment. "It was an odd name."

  Her breath stalled in her chest. No way. No freaking way.

  Recognition dawned on Conner's face. "Lex August. That was it."

  Her blood drained to her feet. Three years, six months, and ten days since she'd seen or spoken to Lex August and still the sound of his name made her want to kick somebody. The Bureau knew she was here all right, and sending that bastard was an intentional, tactical move. Hell, he probably requested the assignment. Maybe she would kick somebody.

  Conner was lucky she was no longer pissed off at him.

  "You know him?"

  "What makes you think I know him?"

  Another of those "guy" shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe the way your face went white as a sheet when I said his name. Or the way your lips—"

  "I get the picture." What the hell? There was absolutely no possibility that this was coincidence and no way she could avoid it, unless… "When will he arrive?" Her first thought was to go. Get the hell out of here before that part of her past had time to catch up with her.

  Cops can't catch the devil. The girl from the cemetery flashed through Sarah's head but was quickly trumped by the memory of the agony in Rachel Appleton's eyes. If Sarah left… who would look at this case with complete objectivity? Who would step on toes, even those of the locals, and push to find the truth… the killer—before it was too late and Alicia Appleton was dead?

  Her mother had received the roses today… time was running out.

  "He arrives tomorrow," Conner said. "Flying into Portland tonight and driving up first thing in the morning."

  Wonder Boy, that's what they called him. He could analyze a crime scene and whatever evidence there was and reduce the killer to twenty-five words or less in record time. And he was always right. Except for that once, but no one knew about that. He'd used Sarah's theory as his own to cover his mistake.

  She should have sued but pillow talk wasn't always admissible in court. And she didn't want the world to know what a fool she'd been.

  He fucked her then he fucked her over.

  If Tae found out August was assigned to this case… he would definitely want her out of here.

  Damn.

  The gossip she'd heard from the cashier at the Rite Aid nudged its way into her troubled thoughts. "I have to go." First stop the inn, then the church. That should really boost her popularity.

  "I wanted to—"

  The crunch of ice and snow distracted Conner.

  Sarah glanced over her shoulder.

  Oh, hell.

  Not good.

  Two news vans roared into the lot, then screeched to abrupt stops around her car. A blond female reporter hopped out of one and hurried toward Sarah as fast as her high heels would carry her through the snow. Before she could reach Sarah another, this one male, also blond but no heels, sprinted from the other van.

  "Sarah, what's your assessment of the situation here in Youngstown?" This from the female.

  Sarah held up her warm, gloved hands. "I have no comment."

  "Come on, Sarah," the male reporter said as he elbowed his way in next to Conner. "You must have some conclusions. All we need is one sound bite."

  "You've been here more than twenty-four hours," the female urged. "Our viewers would love to hear anything you've learned."

  Cameramen, equipment directed on Sarah, crowded up behind their respective reporters.

  The sound of more vehicles arriving had Sarah's attention swinging back to the entrance of the parking lot she'd thought was a secluded spot no one would notice. Another news crew in an SUV and one of Youngstown's official police cruisers. This just got better and better.

  "Back off."

  Sarah turned back to Conner who was ready to exchange knuckle imprints with one of the cameramen.

  "Sarah!" The blond guy. "Do you think there's any merit in the curse that has folks in Youngstown shaking in their snow boots?"

  Cute. "If you knew me," she said, cutting him a look that let him know how inept she considered his propaganda hype tactic, "you would know the answer to that question without having to ask."

  "Did you lead the local police to the truth, Sarah? We all know your debunking reputation. You knew there was no hocus-pocus going on here before you came. Did you help the police understand what they were really dealing with?"

  "The evidence led the Youngstown authorities to their conclusions," Sarah answered. "I'm only an observer."

  "No ghosts in the mist, Sarah?" the newest reporter to join the fray shouted.

  Whatever possessed her at that moment, Sarah couldn't name. "No ghosts," she said to the reporter. "Just the devil."

  The realization of what she'd said sank in instantly. Her words fueled the frenzy.

  Sarah held up her hands stop-sign fashion. "That's it. No more questions."

  "Is it true," blond boy persisted, "that you bribed a morgue tech for copies of the crime-scene photos?"

  Conner jerked her car door open. "Get in. I'll take care of this."

  Was that fury throbbing in his rock-hard jaw?

  Sarah didn't waste time mulling over the idea. She scooted behind the wheel, dug out her keys, and started the car.

  With Deputy Karen Brighton's assistance, Conner cleared a path for Sarah to drive away.

  Okay, so now he'd rescued her twice.

  That earned him a second chance. Maybe he hadn't known about the press conference. It could have happened just as he said.

  She slowed at the inn, got a glimpse of a news van in the parking lot, and opted not to turn up the drive. She decided to pay the minister a visit.

  Five minutes later she was still driving around. Where was that church? She'd passed it at some point since her arrival. Taking a right onto Central Street, she followed it until it intersected with High. The church with its soaring steeple sat in the pie-shaped spot carved out of the community by the angled intersection of Central and High streets.

  The house nestled next to the church, she assumed, was the minister's home.

  Only one way to find out.

  She parked in the church lot and took her t
ime strolling toward the house next door. The parking area as well as the nearby sidewalks had been cleared of snow. Proud stained-glass windows flanked the church's double entry doors. The church looked about as old as everything else around here.

  The house, too. Cedar-shake-shingle siding, and six-over-six windows.

  Two wide steps up put her on the stoop. She pressed the doorbell and waited. A car sat beneath a carport at the side of the house. Hopefully someone was home.

  The door opened and a teenage girl peeked out. "May I help you?"

  Brown hair and eyes. A little plump. Dressed in the expected preacher's-daughter attire. Loose-fitting jeans and a bulky sweater. Other than the soft oval face and long hair it would be difficult to tell if she were a boy or a girl.

  "Hello." Sarah produced that pleasant smile folks expected. "I'm Sarah Newton and I'm here to see Father Mahaney. Are you his daughter?"

  "No, I'm his niece." The girl blinked, seemed to consider her options, then opened the door wide. "Come in. I'll let my aunt know there's a visitor."

  At least Sarah was through the door.

  "Wait here, please." The girl gestured to the sofa.

  "Thank you."

  As the girl walked away, Sarah took in the decorating. Simple. Wood floors, the occasional colorful rug, subtle blue flowers in the wallpaper. Gas fireplace blazed, making the room overly warm. Homey.

  "How can I help you, Ms. Newton?"

  Sarah turned to the woman who'd entered the room. Middle-aged. Same brown hair as the niece except sprinkled with gray. Different eyes. More green than brown. That she wore gloves indoors seemed odd.

  "I'm here to see Father Mahaney." Sarah thrust out her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

  "Deborah Mahaney."

  The woman barely touched Sarah's hand, but even for that fleeting moment Sarah felt the gnarled digits hidden by the gloves. Arthritis?

  "I'm sorry," Deborah said without the slightest remorse, "but the Reverend is out visiting an ill member of our congregation. Is there something I can help you with?"

  Father, reverend, whatever. Sarah could never keep up with that stuff. "Actually, you might be able to." Sarah paused, expecting the invitation to sit. Didn't come. "I was hoping to learn a little more about Valerie Gerard."