Irrefutable Evidence

by Melissa F. Miller

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  According to the map application on his phone, Nino was about forty-five minutes north of the entrance to the Outer Banks when he realized that the little red dot representing his prey was stationary. He wasn't sure exactly when it had stopped moving because he'd been so focused on the road ahead, squinting to make out the traffic signs through the poor visibility in the driving rain.

  But there was no doubt that for at least the past six to seven minutes the little red light had been sitting still on the shoulder of the road. It looked as though the McCandless woman and her husband had stopped somewhere just inside the limits of the beach town of Kitty Hawk.

  Nino had not made good time. The Town Car was not meant for driving in the elements or for chasing down fleeing witnesses. Rather, it was a show car intended to ferry a powerful, dangerous man from one important gathering of powerful, dangerous men to the next.

  He wasn't overly concerned about the distance the couple had put between themselves and him. In fact, he was pleased. Now that they had reached their destination, they would settle in with a false sense of security.

  Given the hour, they’d likely go to sleep immediately, which would make his planned execution even easier. He’d set up and pick them off in their sleep. He’d do the lawyer first and then her husband—as they lay in bed. The shots would come so close together that they would never know what happened. Essentially, they’d die in their sleep.

  He allowed his mind to wander to the details of the shooting. He covered the remaining miles with his attention split between the driving conditions and the steps he’d take once he arrived. He’d silence the lawyer—and, for good measure, her husband—and his secrets would remain protected. There would come a time when he’d have to make a decision about his path. He’d face a choice between his past and his present. But that time was not now.

  As he crossed the Currituck County line, the road filled with standing water over a foot high. He slowed the car and inched along, willing the vehicle to make it through the rising waters. The sound of rushing water below the passenger compartment pushed his heartrate higher. He wasn’t much of a mechanic. If he damaged Peaches’s car down here in this desolate beach town in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve, he’d be stranded.

  He winced at the groaning sounds the engine made, but the Town Car kept crawling forward. He risked a glance away from the dark road to check on the GPS tracker. He was much closer to the red dot than he’d dared to hope. According to the tracker, the SUV was approximately a quarter of a mile ahead on his right.

  He decreased his speed even further and scanned the row of dark buildings set back from the shoulder of the highway. There were no street lights on the country road. As best he could tell in the dark, through his rain-smeared windows, the structures were all private homes. There were no commercial signs or paved parking lots.

  But the houses were all shut up tight and dark. No Christmas lights, no cars, no signs that the owners had traveled to the Outer Banks for the holidays. He continued to roll along, the patter of the pounding rain matched by the swishing of his windshield wipers. After several minutes he reached the spot on the map marked by the red dot that he’d spent more than ten hours stalking.

  There was no house. No driveway. And most troubling of all, no Lexus SUV. He pulled over on the shoulder and stared hard out the passenger window. His headlights caught a long, low split-wood rail fence that looked like it belonged on a ranch in Wyoming. It ran along a front yard that stretched as far south as he could see.

  Where were they?

  His pressed his fingers to his temples and worked it through. The Bureau's GPS system trackers were remarkably accurate, capable of pinpointing a location within inches. Perhaps the version sold through the big box stores was less precise. In fact, he told himself, it certainly was—the federal government wouldn’t allow private citizens to have the same level of technology available to law enforcement. No freaking way.

  So, he’d have to go hunting after all. He could assume the GPS tracker got him within a few football fields’ distance of the device. He killed the engine but left the lights on to provide some visibility and stepped out into the cold rain. He looked left, then right, and decided to head left first.

  He hopped the fence and trudged through the slick scrub grass. When the grass gave way to crushed stones, he stopped. The entrance to the driveway did not come from the highway but, rather from the cross street. That must have been why he couldn’t see the house from the road. It sat back here, tucked into the left corner of the lot.

  He followed the winding drive, walking in the grass that edged it so as not to announce his presence with the crunch of gravel, and crept on silent feet around to the back of to the dark, boxy house. No telltale yellow square of light shone in a window. No eerie blue television images flickered from inside the home. And no SUV hunkered in the carport formed by the stilts on which the empty, still house sat.

  He fumbled in his pocket and found his cell phone then ducked under the house for a respite from the driving rain. He leaned against a wooden post and pulled up the GPS tracker page. According to the map, he was now standing on the opposite side of the red dot. He’d reached the end of the technological line. The device had brought him as far as it could, but it believed McCandless and her husband were in this spot. They were not.

  Nino knew neither the land area nor the population size of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, but he knew this: day would break in just a few hours and he would spend Christmas Eve wandering in search of his targets without so much as a star to guide him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Christmas Eve, mid-afternoon

  “Rise and shine, sweetness,” Connelly whispered, tickling her ear with his breath.

  Sasha blinked herself awake. “What time is it?”

  “Almost two thirty.”

  “Whoa. I blame this bed. It’s like sleeping in a cloud.” The Petersons hadn’t skimped on the furnishings for their beach house. All six of the master bedrooms were outfitted with California king beds made up with piles of high thread count sheets, soft blankets, and an abundance of pillows.

  When they’d reached the house hours earlier, they hadn’t needed to break in after all. To Connelly’s bemusement, Sasha had punched Noah’s old Prescott & Talbott employee number into the keyless entrance, and the door had unlocked instantly. She’d tried to explain that a big-firm lawyer’s employee number became a part of him, never to be forgotten, but he clearly wasn’t getting it, so Sasha (formerly known as PT048249) had given up and gone off in search of somewhere to sleep.

  She’d wandered through the airy bedrooms and had stopped when she reached the one with the wide balcony overlooking the beach and the bi-level deck below.

  Now Connelly gestured toward the floor-to-ceiling window and French doors that led out to the balcony. “I’d say you’re sleeping the day away, but you didn’t miss anything. The sky is nothing but black clouds and rain.”

  She sat up and scanned the shadowy room. The blackout blinds made every corner look ominous and foreboding. As if he’d read her mind, Connelly rose and opened the blinds. The sky was as he’d represented. Cold, gray, and covered with heavy dark clouds. The ocean below looked frigid and hostile.

  “I guess we won’t be seeing any dolphins—or porpoises, as the case may be—out swimming in this mess unless it’s a Christmas miracle,” she said smiling lazily.

  “Not if they obey the evacuation order.”

  “There’s an evacuation order?” She was suddenly wide awake.

  “Not a mandatory order, per se. More like a strongly worded suggestion.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Yes, according to the guy at the gas station, because the approaching storm hasn’t been classified as a hurricane, the utilities might not go out. Any renters will need to leave because of the terms of the rental contracts, but the handful of owners who came in for Christmas can and probably will stay
put.”

  “Anything else worth knowing?”

  “There’s a steady stream of cars headed out of town so they’ve opened both lanes for outbound traffic. Nobody can get on the island. Also, Harris Teeter stayed open, so you’ve been spared a Doritos and turkey jerkey omelet for lunch. And I think we’ll be able to put together a decent Christmas dinner tomorrow, too.”

  Hiding out with her husband in an oceanfront beach house might not be quite the same as jetting to paradise, but it wasn’t far off. She smiled and patted the bed beside her. “Why don’t you come over here and I’ll give you your Christmas present early?”

  She didn’t have to ask twice. He dove onto the overstuffed mattress as if he were body surfing, and caught her up in a tangle of sheets.

  Outside the storm intensified, but they didn’t notice.

  They also didn’t notice the lone man walking along the beach through the downpour or the way he slowed then crouched to look at the SUV parked under the pilings when he reached the patch of sand in front of Habeas Porpoise.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Sasha woke up to Connelly trying to gently disengage himself from her embrace.

  “I fell asleep again?” she mumbled through a tangle of hair.

  “We both did. It was a long drive. We needed the rest. But it’s almost six o’clock. I was going to get dinner started. Are you hungry?”

  “Famished. And my head’s pounding.” She flopped back on the pillow. Her temples were throbbing. “Caffeine withdrawal, probably.”

  “No doubt. This might be the longest you’ve ever gone without coffee. Your body must be setting off all manner of alarms,” he said in a voice that hinted he might secretly be amused.

  “It’s not funny. Please tell me there’s a coffee maker.”

  “Better. A fancy espresso maker with all the bells and whistles. And your loving husband picked up some locally roasted beans at the grocery store.”

  She grinned at him even though the movement of her mouth threatened to split her skull in two. “Thanks.”

  “Why don’t you take a hot shower? I’ll bring you a mug when it’s ready.”

  “I love you,” she trilled in response and headed for the marble and glass bathroom.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Nino stared down at the schematic he’d created on his phone. He measured the angle from the neighboring homes to the house where the targets were holed up and shook his head. It wasn’t going to work. All the decks and balconies seemed like a boon but they weren’t lining up. He wasn’t going to be able to get a clear shot, particular not with the wind gusts and the constant rain.

  He was dog tired from combing the streets, house by house, row by row. But he’d found them. And he had no intention of sitting around this crappy town in this miserable, unending storm and watching them make out in every room of that giant house. He’d just have to adjust his plan.

  Nothing gory. No bloodbath. No severed limbs.

  He’d wait for a chance to get the jump on the husband, do him first, and then take care of the wife. He’d break their necks. Two quick snaps of bone and it would be over. Then he’d point Peaches’s car north and be home in time for Christmas dinner.

  He rearranged the long rifle and the scope under the blanket and slammed the trunk shut. It was time to get this party started. He walked slowly along the shoulder of the narrow road, dodging the largest puddles, as he made his way to the house where Sasha McCandless would die.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Leo held a stockpot under the pot filler and ran the water, threw in a handful of sea salt, and then lit a burner on the commercial Viking range and placed the pot on it to get his low-country boil started. Standing in Laura Peterson and the late Noah Peterson’s vacation home kitchen filled him with an awe and amazement he’d last felt as an eight-year-old kid in F.A.O. Schwartz. One or both of the Petersons must have been an aspiring chef. The kitchen had every imaginable convenience, all top of the line.

  He chopped and diced the potatoes and sausage then added them to the pot while the espresso machine steamed and purred, working on Sasha’s coffee. He uncorked the wine and poured it into the decanter to breathe. He nodded with satisfaction. All that was left was to toss in the seasoning and add the corn and the shrimp. Dinner was well in hand.

  He felt calm. And, contrary to his expectations, happy. Having Sasha all to himself without the threat of intrusion was an unanticipated treat. They could celebrate Christmas and their first anniversary in this oceanfront cocoon without fear of interruption or intrusion. So long as they could keep the reality of why they were hunkered down on a barrier island at bay.

  He poured her coffee into a glazed mug and switched on the sound system to fill the first floor with music. He’d add the Old Bay to the pot then take the coffee up to her. He pulled open the spice cabinet and scanned the tidy row of labels.

  Rosemary; thyme; fennel; smoked paprika; peppercorns; cinnamon; cardamom; ground ginger.

  He pushed the jars to the side and looked in the back of the cabinet. There were no other spices. Who in their right mind would have a house that overlooked the ocean and not have Old Bay seasoning stocked as a basic spice? How did these people cook shrimp? Or crabs? Or … any seafood?

  They couldn’t have low-country boil without Old Bay. Or he couldn’t, at least.

  The grocery store was a four-minute drive, if that. He grabbed his keys from the counter.

  “I have to run to the store. Your coffee’s on the counter,” he shouted up the stairs, hoping Sasha could hear him over the running water. He figured he had a good shot at being back with his spice before she was even out of the shower.

  He raced down the stairs and hurried into the SUV. As he pulled out, he was focused on making the turn through the wide puddle that sat near the intersection. He didn’t notice the man in the leather jacket walking along the shoulder, his head bent and his hands shoved in his pockets.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Sasha stepped out of the steamy shower still singing the refrain from “Winter Wonderland.” As she wrapped her hair in a thick towel, she frowned at the vanity. No coffee mug awaited her.

  “Hey, promising a desperate woman caffeine and not delivering is cruel and unusual!” she shouted toward the hallway.

  Connelly didn’t respond to her teasing. Or if he did, she couldn’t hear him. The bedroom was two flights up from the kitchen, she reasoned. She towel dried her hair and tied it back in a loose ponytail then hurriedly pulled on a pair of leggings and a hooded sweater.

  As she ran down the spiral staircase, she began to feel slightly more human—although a mug of espresso and one of Connelly’s rib-sticking dinners would go a long way to completing her transformation into a functional human being.

  She passed the elevator, noting the excess represented by installing an elevator in a beach house, and stepped out into the spacious kitchen. Soft music played, a bottle of red wine had been decanted, a heavy stock pot of something delicious bubbled on the stove, and an oversized mug of steaming coffee sat at the edge of the expanse of granite. The only thing missing was the smoking hot househusband.

  “Connelly?” she called.

  No response. A shiver of worry ran along her spine.

  She switched off the sound system and turned the burner to low so whatever he was cooking wouldn’t burn. Then she padded barefoot through the massive hallway and down the stairs in search of her husband.

  She started on the ground floor. He wasn’t in the laundry room, the home theater, the game room, or the half-bath near the patio that housed the hot tub. As she walked through each silent, shadowy, room she flipped on the overhead lights in an effort to chase away the fear that was dogging her footsteps.

  Finding no Connelly on the ground floor, she raced back up the stairs and canvassed four bedrooms and their attached bathrooms, the living room, the dining room, the walk-in pantry, and a small office/library where Noah had probably once toiled away his vacati
ons revising briefs, returning phone calls, and rejecting settlement offers. For that reason, the room creeped her out more than any of the others, so she hurried through it back into the still-empty kitchen before the ghost of a lawyer who’d wasted his life could materialize like a scene out of a Dickens story.

  “Leo?” she called, louder and more insistent than she’d been. She even used his first name.

  Maybe he’s upstairs. He could have decided to go sit out on the balcony, she told herself. In the rain? Doubtful. But there was only one way to find out, and it wasn’t by standing in the kitchen talking to herself.

  She turned to head back up the staircase. Then she sensed, more than saw, movement on the periphery of her visual field. Out on the deck. She froze and stared hard at the sliding door. Waited. After a long moment, no one came bursting through the glass.

  She exhaled and started up the stairs, only to whip her head around. There it was again. Just a flutter of movement on the deck.

  “Babe?” she tried to shout, but her voice failed her. A croaky whisper was all she managed. She cleared her throat and forced herself to cross the living room.

  She stood for a moment looking out into the inky darkness then flipped on the outdoor overheads, bathing the deck in yellow light.

  No one knows you’re here. Remember? She pressed her forehead against the glass and saw a figure race across the deck. Was Connelly out there trying to entice her into the hot tub? He was mistaken if he thought she had any intention of a soak during a rainstorm.