0373447477 (R)

by Shirlee McCoy

  “Your age? What are you? Twenty-seven?”

  “Add a few years to that and then multiply it for all the stress in my life. Come on. Let’s go find the guy you and Malone were planning to talk to.” She opened the door, her gaze scanning the empty parking lot. She didn’t seem nervous, but Quinn didn’t suppose she had any reason to be. She’d probably been in a lot worse circumstances than these, facing a lot more daunting odds.

  “What about the men?” Quinn asked as she got out of the SUV.

  “If they get into trouble, they’ll let me know, and I’ll call in the cavalry. Otherwise, our assignment is this.” With that, she grabbed the hem of Quinn’s shirt and tugged her into motion.

  * * *

  The guy was there.

  Malone could hear him moving through the trees somewhere ahead. Behind him, sirens blared as the sheriff and his deputies arrived. They could take a look at the car, figure out where it had come from. They could help with the search, find the perp, bring him in for questioning, but they wouldn’t be able to stop what had been set in motion. The only one who could do that was Tabitha.

  She held the key to this.

  She knew what she’d heard or seen or experienced. She understood the power she had over Jarrod’s future. And it had to be a lot of power because a guy like Jarrod Williams didn’t scare easily, and he was scared. No one sent this much manpower if there wasn’t a lot at stake.

  Money?

  Business?

  Freedom?

  All of the above?

  Malone slipped through dense foliage, moving toward the area he thought the perp had gone. The guy they’d caught in Pennsylvania had said he and two other men had been hired to find Jubilee. They’d taken two into custody. If they assumed that the dead man was the third, it stood to reason this fourth guy was Charles Libby. If they got their hands on him, they might get confirmation that the boss was Jarrod Williams.

  He motioned for Chance to flank to the right, try to get in front of the perp before he made it to the lake. Malone could see it through the trees, hear the water lapping against the shore line. The woods must front to a small beach. If Malone were on the run from the police, then that would be the last place he’d want to be. Too open.

  But it was the direction the perp seemed to be heading.

  Could there be a dock? A boat?

  Maybe the boat that had been stolen from the marina?

  He moved cautiously, gun still in his hand, body humming with adrenaline. His senses were most alive when he was on the hunt, moving into dangerous territory to find or free the lost, but he was finding that he couldn’t live in this place, that his mind was starting to crave normalcy, that every time he visited Tennessee, he thought of how nice it would be to have a place like that to return to, someone to return to.

  Quiet evenings spent talking.

  Fireside chats on winter mornings.

  A couple of kids running around.

  Maybe a dog.

  Big dreams for a guy who’d never wanted any of those things. Maybe that was part of the process of maturing or maybe it came from seeing the worst parts of life—the hard things, the sorrow, the tragedies. That made a guy yearn for a little normalcy, it made him crave the innocuous everyday troubles that most people complained about—broken water heaters, flat tires, kids throwing fits. Those were the easy things when a person really knew what the hard things were.

  And Malone did.

  Something splashed into the water, the sound a jarring note in the eerie silence. Another splash, and Malone sprinted forward, clearing the trees and racing out onto the beach. Two hundred yards away, a dock stretched out into the water, a pretty little houseboat tied up beside it, blocking his view of what lay beyond. There were no lights on in the boat, no sign that anyone lived there.

  He raced toward the dock, Chance running up beside him, the sound of oars slapping against the water spurring them both on.

  “Hold on!” Chance pulled him back when they reached the dock. “You said he was armed, and we have no idea where he is. Until we’ve got a clear view of the area, we need to take it slow.”

  “He fired three rounds. He might be out of ammunition, because he hasn’t fired since.”

  “Either that, or he realized he was wasting ammunition and was holding off until he had a clearer shot. Let’s play this safe. I don’t want to lose a team member.”

  “I’m off the team, remember?” Malone stepped onto the deck, staying close to the houseboat as he moved.

  “You’ve been reinstated. As much as it pains me to admit it, you’re an asset to HEART.”

  “You must be tired, Chance, if you’re talking like that.”

  “Just want to make sure that you know you’re appreciated. Some people on the team say that I’m not generous enough with the praise.”

  “Some people meaning Stella?”

  “Some people. Meaning people.”

  “Well, unlike those people, I’m not all that concerned with being praised.” He stopped at the end of the house boat. The dock stretched out another twenty feet, moonlight glittering on the water beyond it. He couldn’t see the perp; and the lapping of waves against pilings masked any other noise that he might have heard. “He’s out of view. I’m going to have to go out in the open.”

  “Cautiously,” Chance muttered, following Malone out of the shadow of the boat.

  The guy was a few hundred yards out, rowing hard for the far shore. Malone could see him clearly. Dark hair. Middle-aged.

  “May as well come back now,” he called. “The police will be waiting when you reach the other side.”

  No response.

  Not that Malone expected one.

  He could have jumped into the lake and gone after the guy, but he could hear sirens screaming in the distance, could see them flashing in the trees on the other side of the lake. Sheriff Lock knew what he was doing. He had men on the ground, and unless Malone missed his guess, there’d be a state helicopter with a search light appearing soon. He could already hear the thump of helicopter rotors in the distance.

  “Looks like he’s not any better at listening than you are,” Chance muttered.

  “Looks like it isn’t going to matter. He’ll be in custody in minutes.”

  “And we’ll be answering more questions asked by the local PD. This is why I like to keep out of trouble when we’re in the States. It wastes time. Time I don’t have.”

  “You have somewhere more important to be?”

  “Yeah. In DC making sure Boone and his family are doing okay. This stuff—” he gestured to the lake, the cruiser that had just appeared on the opposite shore, the helicopter that was a dot on the horizon “—is just incidental. It’s not what HEART is about. What our company is about is what happens after the chaos and the trouble and the gunfights—people finally being in each other’s arms again. Looks like the perp is changing directions, hoping to find a safer place to land. Let’s go deal with the questions, so we can both move on.”

  He turned away from the boat and walked off the dock.

  Malone stood where he was, watching the perp turn circles as he struggled to figure out a way to escape. Malone could have told him it was useless, but he didn’t waste his breath. As Chance had said, they had more important places to be.

  TWELVE

  They’d come up empty.

  No information on the missing boat except that it was still missing. None of Tom’s neighbors had noticed anyone or anything out of the ordinary. No phone call from Chance or Malone, either. At least that’s what Stella had said when they’d gotten back in the SUV. Quinn looked at the dashboard clock. Only five minutes ago.

  “Do you think—?”

  “They aren’t dead.”

  “You haven’t heard from either of them,” she pointed out.

  “I’d have heard if something happened.”

  “What if they can’t contact you?”

  “They can. We have a system set up.”

 
“What kind of system?”

  “The kind that always seems to get me stuck with people who ask a lot of questions,” she grumbled, pulling up in front of Quinn’s apartment. Crime-scene tape stretched across the bottom of the staircase. More blocked the front door.

  “I guess they don’t want us here,” Quinn said. “I wonder if my landlady knows what happened.”

  “If she’s that lady who’s staring at us from the shop window, then I’d say she does.” Stella pointed to the storefront, and the wizened face that was peering out from it.

  “Lucille!” Quinn called as she tried to get out of the SUV.

  Tried and failed, because Stella grabbed Malone’s jacket and yanked her back. “Hold your horses, Quinn. What if the guy who tried to run you down is waiting around for another opportunity?”

  “Malone and Chance were going after him.”

  “Going after him doesn’t mean they have him.” She got out of the SUV, slammed the door shut and strode to Lucille’s bakery. She knocked. Knocked again more loudly. “Ma’am?” she called. “Can you open the door?”

  Poor Lucille looked as if she was going to have a coronary, her wrinkled face pressed close to the glass, her mouth gapping open as she stared at Stella.

  “She doesn’t open doors for strangers,” Quinn called, getting out of the vehicle, and ignoring Stella’s hard look.

  “You think she’s going to open it if someone takes a potshot at you while we’re walking to the door?”

  “No one is going to—”

  The door flew open and Lucille ran as fast as her eighty-year-old legs could carry her. She threw herself into Quinn’s arms, sobbing hysterically.

  “Quinn, thank goodness! I’ve been worried sick!”

  “Didn’t Sheriff Lock tell you I was okay?”

  “You know how the police are,” Lucille said with a quiet sniff. “They tell you what you want to hear.”

  “Well, he told you the truth this time. I’m fine.”

  “But, there was—” she glanced at Stella, lowered her voice “—blood all over the floor in the apartment.”

  “How did you hear about that?” Stella asked, gently prodding Lucille back toward the shop, her gaze on the road, the row of buildings, the dark shadows at the edges of the trees.

  “My great-nephew is a new deputy. He called me because he was worried. Thought maybe I’d been attacked. I told him I was just fine, and then I started thinking about my dear Quinn. Who would I have to share my morning coffee with if something happened to you, dear?”

  “Nothing is going to happen to me.”

  “It might if we don’t get inside,” Stella said, but her tone was softer. “Ms. Lucille, would you mind if we talk in the shop?”

  “In the shop?” Lucille blinked. “Of course, we can go in the shop.”

  She led them inside, the scent of fresh baked bread and cinnamon rolls drifting over Quinn as she stepped across the threshold. Three generations had run the shop before Lucille. She’d told Quinn that she was the last in the line. She hadn’t married, had never had children. One day, she’d sell the shop, but for now, she could still bake the breads and treats that she’d been selling for as long as she could remember.

  “Sit down, girls,” she said, all the tears and worry gone, her black eyes flashing with the excitement of having late-night visitors and gossip that she could spread at the next quilting bee. “I’ll make some coffee and warm up some pumpkin bread.”

  “Don’t go to any effort, ma’am,” Stella said.

  “Effort? Is it effort to take a breath of morning air?” Lucille patted one of the old booths that she’d reupholstered in the seventies. Green plaid with hints of gold. She’d told Quinn that she didn’t see any reason to change them. Her customers loved the shop’s vibe.

  What they really loved was Lucille.

  “Wow!” Stella whispered as Lucille bustled into the kitchen. “She’s really something. This whole shop is really something.”

  Quinn guessed it was, but she’d grown used to it over the years—the bright booths and the dark wood floor, the old glass display cases and the newer baskets and warming racks behind them. The old-fashioned register that Lucille still used to ring up customers—its beautiful mahogany and brass exterior a work of art.

  “It’s a special place,” Quinn said, as Lucille reappeared, a pretty porcelain chocolate pot on a large tray, silver plates filled with breads and sweets beside it.

  Quinn took the tray from her hands, placed it on the old tabletop. “This looks lovely, Lucille,” she said.

  “Food should always look lovely, my de...” Her voice trailed off, her eyes widening, as she opened her mouth. Tried to speak.

  “Lucille!” Quinn rushed to her side, terrified she was having a heart attack.

  “The window! He’s in the window!” Lucille shrieked.

  Stella was up like a flash, shoving Quinn toward the back of the shop. “In the kitchen! Go! Stay away from the windows and door.”

  “But—”

  “Go!” Stella ordered, turning toward the window, a gun suddenly in her hand. “If there’s a phone, call... Never mind.”

  The tension eased from her body, she tucked the gun away.

  “Those idiots,” she said, but there was a note of affection in her voice, a hint of relief.

  She strode to the door and yanked it open, Lucille shrieking for her to stop or they’d all end up dead at the hands of a murdering fiend.

  Only it wasn’t a murdering fiend who walked in. It was Malone, dark hair a little mussed, T-shirt still stained with soot, a gun holster strapped over his chest. He looked better than any man should, and seeing him there made Quinn’s heart do a couple little flips that had nothing to do with fear or worry, and everything to do with Malone.

  “Well!” Lucille said, apparently realizing Malone wasn’t intent on doing any of them bodily harm. “Perhaps next time you could knock on the door instead of staring in the window, young man.”

  “My apologies, ma’am. I saw the light and thought my friends might be inside. I didn’t mean to scare the tar out of you.”

  “Scare the tar, huh? Are you a Southern boy?”

  “Tennessee. Born and bred.”

  “I’ve always had a soft spot for Southern manners. Sit down. We were having refreshments.”

  “Actually—”

  “Sit! I’ll bring another plate.”

  She hurried back to the kitchen.

  “She might want to bring three more plates,” Malone said. “August and Chance are talking to the sheriff. They’ll be in when they finish.”

  “I’ll go tell her,” Stella offered, following Lucille into the kitchen.

  And then Quinn was alone with the only guy besides Cory who’d ever made her pulse leap and her heart jump.

  She ran her hand along one of the booths, avoiding his dark gaze. “Were you able to catch the guy?”

  “We weren’t, but a couple of deputy sheriffs snagged him off the boat he stole.”

  “He stole a boat?”

  “Rowed out into the lake, and then realized he had nowhere to go.”

  “So, that’s one less person going after Tabitha.”

  “Going after you,” he corrected. “You keep forgetting that. You’re a means to an end, Quinn. Jarrod wants his wife back, and you’re his way to do that now that Jubilee is inaccessible.”

  “I haven’t forgotten, but I’ve got a lot of people working to keep me safe. Tabitha is on her own.”

  “By her own choice.” He moved close, touched her chin, urging her to look into his eyes.

  And how could she not?

  He’d stepped into her life as a stranger, done everything he could to keep her safe. She owed him.

  “Does it matter if it’s her choice?” she asked softly, because her throat was tight again with that same feeling of anticipation and sorrow that she felt every time she looked into his eyes. “I still don’t want her fighting this on her own.”

  �
�Because she’s your sister, and you love her. Sometimes, though, we have to let the people we love learn from their mistakes.”

  “Learning from her mistakes might mean she dies, Malone.”

  “No. It won’t, because we’re going to prove that Jarrod is coming after her. The guy who’s being booked on assault is Charles Libby, and according to the two other men who are in custody, he knows who’s footing the bill for all of this. We’re hoping that he’ll decide to plea bargain for a lesser sentence.”

  “That might be difficult if he’s the one who murdered the guy they found in the lake.”

  “Whether he did or not isn’t our problem to worry about. The sheriff will handle the investigation. What I’m worried about is you.” He touched her jaw, his finger skimming over the bruised skin, his eyes so filled with compassion and concern she glanced away. “I want you to go back to DC with Chance, Quinn,” he said quietly. “He needs to leave in the morning so that he can be back there for Boone. We can get you a flight out, too. You can stay with him until this blows over.”

  “What? You’re kidding, right?” He didn’t look as if he was kidding. He looked dead serious.

  “The three of us discussed it on the way over here, and—”

  “You didn’t include me in the discussion? You didn’t think I’d have an opinion about what I wanted to do?”

  “I knew you’d have an opinion. That’s why I’m filling you in now, before your brother arrives and tries to force you to do something you don’t want to do.”

  “How is that different from what you’re doing?”

  “This isn’t forcing, Quinn. This is explaining. You’re in danger here, and you’ll continue to be in danger until Tabitha decides to seek the help she obviously needs.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you also know that it would really bother me if something happened to you?” he asked. “Do you understand that the world isn’t going to be nearly as nice of a place without you in it?”

  “Malone...” She shook her head, turning to look at one of the black-and-white photos that lined the wall. Pictures of the bakery when it was new, the customers wearing long dresses and hats, the men in snazzy suites and shiny shoes.