by Irene Hannon
That change had also given him a great idea for the abduction. A lot of women these days knew better than to get in a car with a kidnapper—even an armed one. They just stood their ground and screamed bloody murder. Took their chances. But Alison Taylor was a do-gooder. A woman who cared about others. No way would she put her own interests above those of someone else. She would do whatever it took to protect another life.
Even if it meant putting her own on the line.
His idea was pure genius.
Unfortunately, dispensing with the blindfold did create a problem. She’d be able to identify him. So if he let her go after he was through with her, she’d lead the cops straight to him—and he’d end up back in Potosi. Forever, this time.
He couldn’t allow that to happen.
And that left him only one option.
Alison Taylor had to die.
He knew just how he was going to do it too. It had come to him after he’d snorted the second line, and the sweet irony of it had appealed to him. Not only would his chosen method get rid of her, it would also allow him to triumph over—and vanquish—the old fears that had haunted him since childhood.
It was perfect.
And once this was over, once he was avenged and feeling upbeat about finally pulling something off without making a mess of it, he’d be ready to move on and start a new life. One that didn’t include Chuck and his fleabag trailer.
The blink of Alison’s turn signal pulled him back to reality, and he exited at Elm, keeping her in sight. In less than five minutes, she swung into the parking lot of an older, tree-shaded apartment building. She must be staying with a friend. For safety’s sake.
A smirk twisted his lips.
Good luck on that, sweetie.
He watched her exit the car, her arms bulging with mail. His love letter had to be in that pile. Too bad he couldn’t watch her reaction.
But he’d soon see plenty of reaction firsthand.
Starting tomorrow night.
Smiling, Daryl stepped on the gas. Operation Alison was about to hit bingo.
“Can I have a drink of water, Mom?”
Nicole paused at the door of Kyle’s bedroom, her hand on the light switch. The water-delay ploy must be a universal bedtime trick among children. But at least his fears had diminished to the point he felt comfortable in his own room again.
“Sure, honey. I’ll be right back.”
Leaving the light on, she walked down the short hall to the kitchen. As she filled a plastic cup with tap water, the tattered slip of paper with Alison’s home number caught her eye. She’d set it on the counter earlier, and she’d been debating all evening about whether to bother the Children’s Service worker with her dilemma. So far, she hadn’t made a decision.
Nicole fingered the slip of paper and thought back to the time four years ago when her problems had been on the verge of crushing her. They would have too, if Alison hadn’t thrown her a lifeline by offering her home number and assuring her it was okay to call anytime. That had been her salvation. Just knowing she had someone in her corner had given her the strength to tackle her problems. She’d only felt desperate enough to call the number twice, and she hated to intrude now on Alison’s personal time. The woman had already done far more for her than her job required.
Yet she was stymied about how to address the situation with Daryl. Or even if she should.
“Mom? Are you coming?”
She hesitated, then set the piece of paper back on the counter and returned to Kyle’s room.
“You must be really thirsty.”
“Yeah.” He took the glass, but after a few small sips he handed it back.
She wasn’t surprised.
“Feel better now?”
“Uh-huh. Thanks.”
He wiggled down into the bed, and Nicole used her free hand to settle the light blanket over his shoulders. Then she bent low and kissed his cheek.
“’Night, honey.”
“Good night, Mom. I love you.”
Her throat constricted at his innocent, heartfelt declaration, and she had to swallow before she could respond. “Love you too.”
At the door, she stopped on the threshold and looked back at the little boy who meant more to her than life itself. A little boy she’d do anything to protect. No matter the cost.
And as that affirmation echoed deep in her soul, she suddenly knew what she had to do.
After flipping off the light, she returned to the kitchen, picked up the slip of paper, and dialed the phone.
“What is all this stuff?”
Alison turned from the oven, a tray of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies in hand. Cole was sifting through the pile of mail she’d dumped on his coffee table, sipping the strong brew he favored from a mug. Though he’d wandered out of the kitchen once the cookie-making began, he did get points for clearing the table and stacking the dishwasher.
“The contents of my mailbox.” She slid the tray onto a cooling rack. “I’ll go through it as soon as we have our dessert.”
“You get this much mail in three days?” He continued to riffle through the stack.
“Not always. And most of it is junk.”
As he straightened up, the pile began to slide toward the floor. He grabbed for it, but several pieces got past him—including a kraft-colored envelope.
“Who’s that from?” She peeked at him through the pass-through that separated his tiny kitchen from the eating area and living room.
He picked it up. Flipped it over. “There’s no return address. But it has a Manchester postmark.”
“Must be an ad.”
Moving to the lamp beside the couch, he scrutinized it under the light. “No, it’s hand lettered.”
Some nuance in his voice put her on alert. Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she joined him in the living room. “Let me see.”
She held out her hand, but instead of giving it to her, he backed away, keeping the envelope out of reach. “Before you touch it, tell me if you recognize the lettering.”
“Why?”
“Humor me, okay?”
Based on his sober expression, she guessed that humor didn’t come close to describing his feelings.
Leaning closer, she examined her printed name and address. The sender had used basic block letters. Nothing about the style was familiar.
“I’ve never gotten anything like that.”
Without a word, Cole walked toward the eating nook.
She trailed behind. “What are you doing?”
After setting the envelope on the table, he started down the hall. “Don’t touch it until I get back.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” She raised her volume as he disappeared, trying not to sound worried. But she was fairly certain she knew the reason for his sudden serious mood.
When he rejoined her, he was pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Confirming her suspicion even before he spoke.
“This may be from bingo man. On the slim chance he left fingerprints this time, I don’t want to obscure them any more than I already have.”
He continued toward the kitchen, where he withdrew a letter opener from a drawer. Moving to the table, he slipped it under the flap and slit the envelope.
Alison gripped the back of a chair, watching his face as he bowed the envelope and peered inside.
When his mouth flattened into a taut line, her breath hitched in her throat.
“It’s from him, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“W-what is it?” She hated the catch in her voice. It made her sound wimpy and weak and scared. That wasn’t how she saw herself, and she didn’t want her brothers to see her that way either.
“Another bingo card. And what looks like a page from a catalogue.”
“What kind of catalogue?”
His hesitation told her he didn’t want her to know.
“It was sent to me, Cole.” She tried her best to sound forceful. “I have a right to know what it is.”
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Without responding, he set the envelope on the table and returned to the kitchen. Once more he rummaged around in a drawer and extracted a pair of long-handled tweezers. Still silent, he inserted them into the envelope, pulled out a single sheet of thin paper, and laid it on the table.
Alison’s heart skipped a beat. Staring back at her was a photograph of a tombstone. In the same block letters used to address the envelope, the sender had written her name across the top of the granite monument.
While she digested that, Cole removed the bingo card and laid it beside the catalogue page. All but one square in the center line had been marked off with a skull-and-crossbones stamp.
“Wow.” The faint word was all she could manage.
“My reaction is a little stronger than that.”
At his terse tone, she lifted her chin and looked at him. His fingers were clenched, and he was glowering at the items on the table.
“This guy is sick.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle and held on. “No kidding.”
“I wish you’d taken that concealed carry training, like I pushed you to do last year.”
A shiver ran through her as she eyed the Sig Sauer in the holster on his belt. “I don’t want to carry a gun. Besides, even if I had one, I’m not sure I could shoot someone.”
“I bet you could if your life depended on it.”
“You think it could come to that?”
His unrelenting gaze locked onto her. “Yes. This guy is playing a deadly game.”
“Maybe I could just go away for a few days.”
“What’s to keep him from tracking you down?”
Her stomach bottomed out. “What’s your solution, then?”
“You need a bodyguard.”
“A bodyguard.” The concept was surreal. “That seems extreme.”
“No more extreme than what he did to Bert.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. His comeback was harsh, but true. “I have you and Jake. Mitch said he’d pitch in too.”
“We can’t be with you 24/7. And Jake’s out of town.”
Alison sank into the chair in front of her, on the pretense of studying the monument and bingo card. But in truth, her legs were threatening to give out. The notion of a bodyguard was beginning to become more palatable. There was no telling how long it might take to find this guy, and she couldn’t impose on her brothers and Mitch indefinitely. Besides, no matter what kind of fearless front she might manage to put up, she was more scared than she’d ever been in her life.
Apparently interpreting her silence as resistance, Cole sat beside her and touched her shoulder. She braced for a browbeating—but he surprised her.
“I don’t want to smother you. Believe it or not, despite the grief I give you about your I-can-handle-it-on-my-own attitude, I like your self-sufficiency and spunk.” His voice roughened, and he cleared his throat. “So how about this for a compromise? Instead of hiring a bodyguard, I’ll take you to and from work. Cancel your home visits for the next few days. Stay in the office and get caught up on paperwork and case files. This guy seems to be on a fast track. If he’s going to make another move, I expect he’ll do it soon. And once we catch him, I promise to toss you out of my apartment on your ear so you can go back to being Miss Independent. Okay?”
Alison blinked as moisture pooled in her eyes. Just when she thought Cole was hopeless, he pulled a stunt like this. Paid her a compliment instead of complaining. Took her feelings into consideration instead of steamrolling over them. Compromised instead of pushing his own preferences.
“Okay. Thanks.” She sniffed. “And in case I’ve forgotten to tell you lately, thanks for being such a good brother.”
“Hey.” He gave her an alarmed look. “You’re not going to go all sappy on me, are you? Because that would . . .” He reached for his phone and shot her a relieved grin. “Saved by the bell.”
As he took the call, she poked him in the shoulder and rose. He grinned, then waved her off so he could focus on the conversation.
She returned to the kitchen and began removing the cookies from the baking sheet, unfazed by the tempting aroma that usually pushed her salivary glands into overdrive. Her appetite had vanished.
Seeing your name on a tombstone could do that to a person.
“I’m on my way.” Cole ended the call and came around to join her, grabbing a cookie to go with his coffee. “Duty calls.” He finished off the cookie in two bites.
“Another homicide?”
“Possible homicide.” His response came out garbled as he took another cookie. “These are great.”
“How can you eat when someone just died?”
He paused with the cookie halfway to his mouth. “The same way you can eat despite the child abuse you witness. By seeking justice for the victim. By knowing you’re going to do your best to find the perpetrator or fix the problem.”
She conceded his point with a lift of her shoulders. Battered children, dead bodies . . . neither was pretty.
“Will you be late?”
“Probably.” Popping the cookie in his mouth, he grabbed two more before returning to the living room, where he snagged his jacket off the back of the couch. “Don’t open the door for anyone. I’ll lock the dead bolt when I leave.”
She leaned against the edge of the wall that divided the living room and kitchen, watching as he carefully slipped the bingo card and monument photo back in the envelope, then slid the whole thing in a larger plastic bag he retrieved from a drawer in the kitchen.
“I’ll drop this off at the lab before I head home.” He tucked it under his arm.
“Be careful, okay?”
“I’m always careful.”
“Right, Superman.”
He huffed out a breath and shot her an annoyed look. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
“Nope.”
“I was only ten, you know. People do grow up.”
“Yeah, they do. Remember to keep that in mind once we get past this stalker thing, okay?”
Shaking his head, he opened the door. “Good night, Alison.”
“Good night, Superman.”
As the door clicked shut behind him and she heard the dead bolt slide into position, she wandered back to the kitchen and removed the remaining cookies from the pan. So much for her plans for the evening. Sorting through the mail held no appeal, knitting felt too passive, and Ted Drewes was out. If Cole had been called in on a possible homicide investigation, there was a strong possibility Mitch had been too. Maybe she’d scrub the bathroom after she finished cleaning up the cookie mess. That might expend enough of her nervous energy to allow her to fall asleep later.
The only problem with sleeping, though, was that she couldn’t control her dreams. The past few nights they’d jolted her awake with a parade of macabre images that included dead roses, bingo cards, and Bert. Now she could add tombstones bearing her name to that lineup.
The worst thing was, she felt totally helpless. She didn’t have the remotest clue who her tormentor was.
Yet he was out there. Planning his next move.
And according to Cole, he wouldn’t wait long to make it.
A floor creaked in the apartment above her, and the cookie she’d been transferring to a plate flew off the spatula as her hand jerked. It broke in half when it hit the floor, leaving a dark swath of melted chocolate as it slid across the light-colored vinyl.
It almost looked like blood.
A shudder rippled through her, and she bent to pick it up, wiping the chocolate away with a paper towel. Wishing she could wipe away her anxiety as easily.
With a weary sigh, Alison leaned against the counter and thought about the reading from yesterday’s service. The familiar story of the Lord walking on water had resonated with her as never before. She felt like Peter, who’d begun to sink when fear had overwhelmed him and his trust in the Lord had faltered.
In these past few days, fear had overwhelmed her too. But she had to
do her best to let it go. To put it in the Lord’s hands. Trust in his goodness.
And pray he would give her strength and fortitude to weather whatever turbulent seas might lie ahead.
“I found it!”
Daryl looked up from the jar of meth as Bev waved a short-haired black wig in his direction.
She waltzed through the living room, dancing to music only she could hear, and tugged it on. “Whaddya think?” Striking a pose, she fluttered her eyelashes.
If he ignored the ends of her long blonde hair sticking out underneath, he had to admit it changed her appearance a lot. “Not bad. Where’d you find it?”
“In the closet. Chuck keeps a bunch of this stuff for the smurfers. He won’t care if I use it. So tell me the plan again.”
They’d been over it three times already, and Daryl was beginning to get nervous. If Bev blew her small but critical role, they’d both be busted in a heartbeat. But he needed someone, and she was the sole volunteer.
She leaned in close to his face and put her hand on his arm. Her eyes weren’t quite focused, and he tried not to flinch.
“Hey, chill, man. I used to do a lot of acting. That’s what I wanted to be when I grew up, you know? An actress. I was good too. My high school acting coach, Mr. Montesi, said so. That’s why I got the lead in Our Town. You ever see that show? It’s a downer, let me tell you. I played this girl who dies and then comes back as a ghost. But I liked being onstage.”
She dropped her hand, and her expression grew dreamy. “When the lights are on, you can’t see the audience. It’s like nothing exists except this made-up world, where you can be somebody else. That’s what I wanted to do all the time. Be somebody else.”
Daryl edged away. “If you help me with my plan, you won’t be on a stage with lights shining in your eyes.”
Blinking, she refocused on him. “Yeah, I know that. But acting is acting. I’ll pretend like I’m on a stage. It would be fun to be somebody else for a while again. I’ll be great. You’ll see.”