by Webb, Debra
At the front door she stopped and faced him defiantly. “Okay, I’m not going in there with you.” She stared him straight in the eye. “You’ll just have to shoot me here, I guess.”
The lady was tall and slim, but not at all helpless or frail looking. In fact, she looked damned determined and fearless for a woman lost on a deserted road.
Troy reached past her and pushed the door open. “I don’t know who you are—” he held his aim steady on her chest “—but I do know who you aren’t. You aren’t lost and you definitely aren’t looking for your aunt’s house. Now get inside.”
A pulse-pounding moment passed with her staring defiantly at him. No way was she some lost stranger. The lady was way too steady, way too in control. Evidently she thought he was as stupid as his recent actions had shown him to be.
“Fine.” She executed an about-face and stamped inside. “But I’m warning you, my aunt’s expecting me. She’ll call the police if I don’t show up soon. I left her a message saying I was in the area.”
Brave, determined and smart. He kicked the door closed behind him. “Sit.” He gestured to the sofa.
When she’d taken a seat, he plopped her purse onto the back of the closest chair and dug through it. He tossed the usual female items into the chair’s seat. Brush. PDA. Lip balm. He opened her wallet. Jane R. Sutton. Chicago. Twenty-nine. No other forms of ID, no credit cards. One bank check card. A picture of her with an older woman.
“That’s my aunt,” she piped up. “Like I said, she’s expecting me.”
He tossed the purse onto the seat with the other stuff, then walked around to sit on the coffee table directly in front of her. That her eyes didn’t flare with fear and she didn’t draw away with the same confirmed his suspicions.
“Why are you here?”
“I told you—”
“The truth, Ms. Sutton—if that’s even your real name,” he fired back. “I want the truth now.”
She shook her head. Dropped her hands into her lap and shrugged. “You’ve got problems, mister. Have you seen a shrink about your paranoid delusions?”
He ignored her question. “Who sent you?”
“My mother,” she retorted. “She thinks her sister needs help after her surgery. I’m supposed to stay with her a couple of weeks.”
She was good. He’d give her that. “Just stop,” he warned. “I’m not playing that game with you.”
“What game?”
That she could look so innocent only fueled his fury. “I tell you what, Ms. Sutton. I’ll tie you up in the basement.” He stood. “And when you’re ready to tell me the truth, we’ll try this again.”
There was the widening of eyes he’d anticipated several minutes ago. She did not want to be tied up.
“Wait.” She leaned forward a bit. “I’ll tell you the truth. Just don’t put me in the basement.”
He resumed his seat on the coffee table. “Why are you watching me?”
She heaved a big breath. “I’m from the Trib. My boss wanted me to get the story on how you rescued Stuart Norcross’s wife and son. It’s a big story. Maybe you don’t realize, but Norcross is—”
“I know who he is.” Troy’s fury simmered. He should have left the woman and child before the cops arrived. But the woman had been so shaken, her injuries possibly life-threatening, he had been afraid to leave her alone with the child until help arrived.
So much for the good Samaritan bit.
“Then you know that any event, large or small, in his life is big news.” She chewed her bottom lip a second. “I need the story. That’s all I came for, I swear.” She glanced at the gun. “I won’t say anything about your lack of social etiquette.”
Troy searched Jane Sutton’s face, then her eyes, looking for the lie. It was entirely possible that one of the cops had leaked his description to a reporter friend, especially one as determined and persuasive as this one. She could be telling the truth. But her demeanor, her lack of fear of the weapon in his hand, indicated otherwise. If she was a reporter, she had a background in something else. Yes, Stuart Norcross was a big deal in the social and business pages, but this story wasn’t big enough to merit staring down a gun barrel to get.
“If you get your story, you’ll leave me alone?” he ventured. “That’s all you came here for?”
She nodded. “The readers love hero stories. Especially the ones about ordinary guys who come to the rescue. They’ll eat it up.”
“And show up at the hero’s door wanting autographs and photo ops,” he countered.
She shook her head this time. “Oh, I would never leak your location. You have my word on that.”
He needed a new strategy. “Where are your press credentials?”
Her right hand moved to the pocket of her slacks.
“Wait. Stand up.”
Her brow furrowed with confusion.
“Stand up,” he repeated.
Another of those beleaguered sighs accompanied her push up from the sofa.
“Hands back up,” he ordered.
She rolled her eyes but obeyed.
He reached into her pocket. She tensed, drew in a sharp breath. Their gazes locked. “Just making sure you don’t have any pepper spray tucked in here.”
A curt nod had him forcing his fingers deeper into her pocket until he’d found what he was looking for. He pulled out a press badge for the Chicago Tribune. After turning the badge over a couple of times, he said, “Looks real enough.” He held on to her phone as he resumed his seat.
“So.” She sat down on the sofa again. “Do I get the story?”
He thought about the question a moment, settled on his strategy. “Sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lowering his weapon, he stood and rounded the coffee table. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Are you kidding me?”
He didn’t have to look back to know she was following him to the door. Good, that would make getting her out of his house a little easier.
“Wait.” She stalled halfway across the room. “You said you knew what I meant about the story being big.”
“I said,” he reiterated, “I knew who Norcross was. Anyone who reads the papers would. I know his wife and child were in an accident—that was in the papers, too. But I don’t know anything about the guy who rescued them. If you thought that was me, you made a mistake.”
Jane Sutton held up both hands stop sign fashion, then waved them back and forth as if to erase his statements. “No way. Mrs. Norcross described you.” She glanced at his left arm. “All the way down to the cut on your arm. You got that injury dragging her out of the wrecked car.”
He folded his arms over his chest as if that would hide the truth she spoke. “According to the papers, the accident was pretty bad.”
“That’s right. You should know.” She matched his stance. “You were there.”
“I would imagine that Mrs. Norcross was panicked and confused. Probably scared to death. Worried about her child. Who knows what the guy who rescued her really looked like? Could’ve been anyone around here. Folks in this town don’t go around bragging about doing the right thing. Or—” he sent her a pointed look “—nosing around for rewards.”
Her gaze narrowed. “So if you didn’t cut your arm in the rescue, what happened?”
“I’m a short-order cook, lady. I get burned all the time. The diner’s equipment is old. Things don’t always work right and I have to tear ’em apart to find the problem.” He held up his arm. “I cut my arm working on the grill’s wiring.”
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Benson.”
“Believe what you like, Ms. Sutton.” He opened the door. “Give your aunt my best.”
“What about my phone and purse?” Her lips pinched in frustration. “And my press credentials?”
He handed her the phone and press badge, then jerked his head toward the chair. “Take your stuff. And go.”
She stalked across the room, shoved her things back into her purse. When she�
�d slung the strap over her shoulder she glared at him. “For a hero, you’re a really rude guy.”
“I’m no hero, Ms. Sutton.” He studied her profile as she hesitated at the door but refused to look at him. “I’m just a short-order cook trying to get by.”
Jane Sutton hesitated one more beat before walking out the open door. She stormed up the drive and to the road. Once she’d made the turn toward where they had left her car he lost sight of her in the dusk.
He hadn’t seen the last of the lady.
The other thing he was completely certain of was that he had to get on the road.
What had he been thinking hanging around after that accident?
The paramedics had asked him questions. The two cops had gotten a good look at him before he’d found an opportunity to slip into the woods. Mrs. Norcross had obviously remembered the details far too clearly.
Troy was glad she and her son were okay. No way could he have walked away after witnessing her car going off the road.
If he’d opted to forgo his run that night.
If it hadn’t rained so hard so suddenly.
If she hadn’t chosen that particular route that particular night.
But she had. And he’d had no choice but to do the right thing.
Now he was left with no choice once more.
If the press, assuming Jane Sutton actually worked for the Chicago Tribune, was on to his identity, it wouldn’t be long until others learned those details as well.
Troy Benson was finished.
He would have to pick a new name.
A new address.
New job.
But first he had to kill Troy Benson.
That was the hardest part. Finding a way to end a life without getting caught or leaving too many lingering suspicions.
He could do it.
He’d done it before.
Chapter Five
Jane turned the car around and headed back to the highway.
Troy Benson might have the people in this town believing he was just a short-order cook, but that was so far from the truth she wanted to laugh.
It wasn’t so unusual for a guy living out in the country to have a handgun. It wasn’t even unusual for him to investigate anyone hanging around his property. But the whole interrogation thing had been totally out of character for the persona he was going for.
The guy had something he seriously wanted to hide.
And it had absolutely nothing to do with avoiding the limelight or a much-earned reward.
Jane got a glimpse of a turnoff she’d noticed earlier and slammed on her brakes. She shoved the gearshift into Reverse and backed up. It looked as if there had once been a driveway here, but it had long ago been overcome by weeds and grass. With a glance in the rearview mirror to ensure that Benson hadn’t followed her, she pulled forward a little and backed into the drive. When she’d backed a good enough distance from the road to avoid being spotted, she turned off the headlights and ignition.
Since Mr. Benson was armed, it would be in her best interest to carry her weapon just in case he wasn’t so pleasant the next time they met. She reached into the console and retrieved her weapon. After adjusting the interior light so that it didn’t come on when she opened the door, she got out and closed her car door as quietly as possible.
Sliding the weapon into her waistband, she listened past the sound of the leaves rustling in the slight breeze. It was getting darker by the minute. Thankfully the moon had appeared and was filtering light through the trees. Another five minutes and she wouldn’t need to worry about being spotted when she made her way back to the farmhouse. Since she’d carefully staked out the area earlier today, she knew the most pedestrian-friendly route to stay out of sight and clear of the gravel road.
Keeping a close eye on Benson until she heard back from the print search was imperative. Jane’s instincts were shouting at her that the man was planning to disappear. Though she had no evidence to indicate anything in his past would send him running, and certainly nothing about Norcross’s interest in him would prompt such a reaction, she could feel Benson’s desire to escape. He was not going to hang around long.
His tension had been palpable. He was worried big time about who she was and what her exact intentions might be. Her appearance alone was not nearly enough motivation to prompt him to cut and run. Something else had to be behind the escalating tension.
Headlights turning onto the gravel road had her stepping back into the tree line. The lights going dark while the vehicle still rolled sent her instincts to the next level.
Since it wasn’t hunting season and the only inhabited house on this stretch of the road was Benson’s, there was every reason to believe this visitor was here for similar reasons as she.
Logic told her this could be an actual reporter attempting to track down the hero who had rescued Norcross’s family. But her gut told her differently. So far, no one had the scoop on the anonymous rescuer. At least not that had been reported. Nope, this was no reporter.
This was trouble with a capital T.
The sedan stopped short of Benson’s drive. The front doors, driver’s and passenger’s, opened. Despite the dark clothing and the ski masks, the hazy light of the moon allowed her to make out enough about the tall, broad-shouldered frames to recognize that both were male. The driver motioned to the passenger, sending him through the overgrown pasture toward Benson’s house.
Damn. Definitely not good.
Jane weaved her way through the dense underbrush, trying to keep noise to a minimum. If she had Benson’s number she could warn him.
“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath.
If these guys got to his house before she did—
“Don’t move.”
The barrel pressed to the back of her skull proved far more persuasive than the issued order.
“I…need to borrow a phone,” she said, offering the first excuse that came to mind. “My car broke down. I’m totally lost.” She could use the aunt story again. The insistent pressure against the back of her head warned that this guy wasn’t going to be nearly as amiable as Benson had been.
Using his free hand, he patted her down, took possession of her weapon and phone. “Turn around and start back in the direction of your car.”
That he growled the order confirmed her speculation. This guy wasn’t going to make this easy.
“Okay, okay.” She moved around him and started toward where she’d left her car. “I didn’t realize I was trespassing. Chill out. As soon as I can get in touch with AAA I’m out of here.”
“Next,” he said, giving her a prod with the muzzle of his handgun, “I guess you’re going to tell me that you didn’t have enough bars on your cell to make the call already.”
“How’d you know?” Now she was a comedian. How the hell had she missed this big guy coming up behind her? Her instincts were definitely off tonight. Maybe not off, just too focused on her target.
“Just shut up and keep walking.”
Jane kept walking. She still had options. When they reached her car she could make a move. Try and take him down before he could pull off a round.
Risky at best.
Play along and see where it goes from here, particularly if these guys were after Benson for something other than the Norcross rescue as she suspected. They could end up abducted together.
Neither of the two was appealing, but her options were limited.
“I’ve got her.”
The guy with the gun had obviously put in a call to his cohorts. She considered the fact that she’d only seen two men in the car that had arrived after she pulled off the road. Which likely meant the guy behind her already had Benson under surveillance.
The next logical question was, how had these guys found him?
If Benson had fallen off the radar in a previous life, had these guys been closing in on him already or was finding him somehow related to the Norcross accident? She’d sensed that “being watched” feeling at
least once today.
Norcross had come to the Colby Agency, but had he gone to someone else or tried a different avenue first?
There was no reason to suspect Norcross would have an ulterior motive for wanting him found.
As they reached her car, Jane glanced back at the guy behind her. Shorter than his friends. This one, too, had donned a ski mask and dark clothing. Oh yeah. He’d been hanging out in these woods, watching.
He had to have parked on a different road, maybe somewhere on the main road, and walked here. Jane had checked out every possible spot along this gravel road, from one end to the other.
“Facedown on the car,” her captor ordered.
She leaned over the truck, facedown as ordered, arms spread wide. From the edge of her vision she could see him raise the cell phone to his ear.
“What do ya want me to do with her?”
Nice. Nothing like being the excess baggage. Too bad she couldn’t hear the guy on the other end of the line.
“Got it.”
Jane braced for whatever came next.
Fingers tangled in her hair, jerking her upright. “Come on.”
“Ouch! What’s the deal, man?” She tried to infuse fear into her voice, but mostly the words came out ticked off.
“The boss has a few questions for you.”
At least that meant she wasn’t going to eat a bullet just yet. Something to be thankful for.
“What boss?” She stumbled forward as he pushed her toward the road. “I told you I just need to call AAA. Whatever you guys are into is okay with me. I don’t want any trouble.” She was relatively certain that line wasn’t going to work so well this time.
“Tell it to the boss,” he growled, keeping her momentum going by thrusting her head forward.
For now it was one against one. When they met up with his pals, she might not get such even odds.
“Wait,” she whined. “You’re hurting me.”
He jerked her head back against his chin. “That’s the point,” he muttered in her ear.
She rammed her elbow into his ribs. Curled her leg around his and slammed her back into his chest.