by Nell DuVall
She tried to recall exactly what the gunman had looked like. Because of the ski mask and the gloves, she couldn’t be entirely sure, but she thought he had been Caucasian. No accent or cadence in his speech had caught her ear nor had she detected any mannerisms that would single him out as African-American or Hispanic. Was there any such thing or had she just assumed it?
She copied out the information and waited. A few minutes later, the clerk returned with Bradford Harrison’s record.
After a quick review of it, she handed the ledger back to the clerk. “Thanks.”
As Cassie left the Bureau and walked to the elevator, she mulled over what she had learned. According to the records, Justin was African-American. She’d never met Justin, but as an African-American, he couldn’t be impersonating Bradford Harrison. That left Bert Hansen.
If Brad had passed himself off as Hansen, what had happened to the real Bert Hansen? People didn’t just disappear without a trace. They had family and friends who would ask questions about them. How could anyone take on another person’s identity? Surely, at least one person would find out.
The Bert Hansen she had met at Tula’s party had appeared to be a nice young man. Maybe a little too full of himself, but she had sensed nothing odd or evil about him. Nothing about him reminded her in any way of the killer rabbit from her dreams.
The elevator came and one man got out. Cassie joined the two women and the remaining man in the car. The lobby button glowed so she waited with the others as the car continued down.
Outside the building, Cassie walked toward her car, still thinking about Bert Hansen. She tried to visualize him. Tall, fairly muscular, with blond hair and brown eyes.
The gunman had been tall and strong. He fought with Ian and pushed him to the floor before he hit him with gun. She remembered his threatening gaze as he stared at her and then raised the gun. That had drawn her attention all right.
She hadn’t been able to see his hair, but he had dark eyes. Yes, the gunman could have been Bert. Cassie shuddered. She had to reach Ian.
Driving north along High Street, she looked for a phone. At a Stop-N-Go convenience store, she saw one. She swung into the parking lot and pulled up to the phone. She fumbled in her purse for change, but she had used all her quarters on the parking meter. She parked the car and ran inside the store.
A bearded young man sat at the cash register. He surveyed Cassie with a bored look as she approached him.
“Can I have change for a dollar?”
“Sorry, lady, no can do. You have to buy something. We don’t make change.”
Cassie glanced around and grabbed a pack of spearmint gum from a display on the counter. “I’ll take this.”
“Eight-four cents.”
Damn. She needed a quarter, sixteen cents wouldn’t do it. She grabbed another pack, “Make that two. And I want a quarter in the change.”
He rang up the sale and handed her the change. A quarter, a nickel, and two pennies.
“Thanks.” She grabbed the money and ran out the door.
“Hey, lady, you forgot your gum.”
“Keep it,” she yelled back.
Another car had pulled up to the phone. It surprised Cassie to find the phone in use. She backed up and pulled behind the car. If the guy saw her, he might hurry up.
Maybe she should just drive on and find another phone. There had to be other phones in the area. She shifted into reverse, but before she could back up the guy hung up the phone and started forward. Relieved, Cassie pulled up to the phone box.
In her haste, she fumbled with the quarter and almost dropped it. She punched Ian’s office number and waited for an answer. The phone rang four times.
A woman’s voice answered. “You have reached voice mail for...”
“Ian McLeod,” Ian’s voice cut in.
Then the woman’s voice returned. “At the tone please leave your name, phone number, and a brief message.”
Cassie groaned. Damn answering machine! She left a message and hung up. Better go home and see if she could find Ian’s home number. This phone, like most of them, had no phone book. Directory Assistance would require more coins. She pulled ahead and out of the parking lot.
At home, she found no listing for Ian in the Columbus telephone book. Directory Assistance had none either. So much for an emergency.
She hadn’t had another dream, so maybe Bradford Harrison was biding his time. At least now that they knew who Bradford was impersonating, they should be able to protect themselves. Ian would check his phone messages and get hers. Frustration ate at her anyway. Why did Bradford Harrison have to pick on the man she loved, the man of her dreams?
Chapter Twenty
Once home, Cassie tried Ian’s office several more times, but got only the voice mail system. Where could he be? Frustrated, she marched out to the kitchen to fix dinner and eat.
The doorbell sounded as she washed the dinner dishes. Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she hurried toward the front door. A pony-tailed young man stood on the porch. He held a clipboard in his hand. Tall and muscular, he smiled down at Cassie.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m sure you’ve heard about the problems of toxic waste disposal here in Ohio. Greenpeace is collecting signatures against the proposed disposal site in southern Ohio. We’re lobbying against amended legislation to extend a permit to Waste Management for its site near Marietta. I have a petition we’d like you to sign. I’m also collecting money to support our lobbying efforts. We owe it to future generations to protect the environment. We don’t want the problems New Jersey has or a Love Canal here. I hope you’ll be able to help us.” He gave her a winsome smile.
“Toxic waste? Marietta’s on the Ohio River and that flows to the Mississippi.”
“That’s right, ma’am .We’re concerned about ground water contamination and runoff that would pollute the creeks and then the Ohio River itself. There’s a lot of big money pushing this.” He smiled again. “We need all the donations we can get.”
Cassie debated a moment as Ian’s warnings to be careful reverberated in memory. She looked again at the earnest young man with his Greenpeace T-shirt and his clipboard. He posed no danger. She only had to worry about Bert Hansen and she knew what he looked like.
“Why don’t you come in, and I’ll get my purse.” Cassie held the door open and the young man came inside.
She went to the kitchen and pulled her wallet from her purse on the counter. After removing five dollars, she headed back to the front hall. The young man had disappeared.
* * * *
When Ian entered his office, the flashing red light on his answering machine gleamed like an urgent beacon. He hit the play button. MaryLou had called to remind him about breakfast downtown tomorrow morning, and a call from Sharon followed.
“Ian, are you avoiding me?” Sharon’s voice sounded annoyed. “I need to talk to you. Call me.” An audible click sounded signifying she had hung up.
She had broken the engagement, and he had no reason to want to changes things. Now that he and Cassie might have a future together, he didn’t want to hurt Sharon. His feelings had changed so much, but he wasn’t exactly sure how to tell that to Sharon.
The next message came from Cassie Blake. She sounded a little breathless.
“Ian, this is Cassie. I found birth records on all three men. Bradford and Bert are both white so Bradford has to be impersonating Bert. Justin is African-American. I don’t think the gunman was African-American, so that leaves Justin out. Call me when you get a chance. Bye.”
African-American? Ian hit the save button and then replayed the messages. Had he misunderstood? The message remained the same. It didn’t make sense. Justin was no more black than he was. He looked as white as Bert. Cassie must have made a mistake.
He punched her number, but got the answering machine.
* * * *
The phone rang and Cassie lurched forward, but the muscular young man, the ersatz Greenpeace representative, motioned
her back with the gun.
“Let it ring.”
After the fourth ring, her answering machine kicked in. Her short message finished.
“Cassie, Ian. I got you message, but it doesn’t make sense. Justin is white. Are you sure you looked at the right record? Call me later, okay?” The phone clicked.
She looked up at the blue snub-nosed gun pointed at her. It looked all too familiar — just like the gun that hit Ian. The man facing her must be the same man who had threatened Ian earlier.
He wasn’t Bert. The words of Ian’s message now made sense. If the Justin he knew wasn’t an African-American, then Bradford Harrison must be impersonating Justin Lord.
“So you’re Justin. Did you kill the real Justin?”
“Look bitch, if you’d minded your own business, I wouldn’t be here. Now, let’s go.” He motioned her to her feet.
Her brain raced as she struggled to think of a way out. She had foiled this man three times before, and she meant to do it again. “Where are we going?”
“To the basement.”
“Why?”
“So we won’t be disturbed.”
* * * *
A feeling of unease poked at Ian. He got up and paced his office from the window to the door and back. Justin an African-American?
If Cassie had found the right record — she had his name and date of birth and would have no reason to make a mistake. If she was right about Justin, then she was wrong about Bert.
The young men who worked for him were both white, but Cassie had said Justin wasn’t. That meant the man Ian knew as Justin Lord could not be the real Justin. Unless Cassie had located the wrong Justin, Bert Hansen wasn’t Bradford after all. Bradford Harrison was masquerading as Justin Lord.
The only way to make sure would be to confront him. Ian always carried the addresses and phone numbers of his employees with him. He pulled out his diary and checked it for Justin’s. The address was located in the Short North on Third. He locked the office and hurried toward his gray Accord.
* * * *
Trust. Ian wanted to spit out the word. Look where it had landed him. He didn’t like being made to look the fool. Bradford Harrison had done a number on him all right, just like his father James Harrison. That seemingly meek snake had almost ruined him.
How could he have been so gullible? He thought after James Harrison he had learned better. Instead, Ian had unknowingly hired and trained the son who had then tried to kill him. He gritted his teeth as he burned rubber leaving the parking lot. He wanted this business settled once and for all.
Now that he knew the person Bradford Harrison pretended to be, he would stop the son-of-a-bitch. No more threats, no more accidents. The police could deal with Harrison later, but first Ian intended to get some satisfaction from him.
As Ian drove south along High Street, he wondered how Harrison had become so twisted and why he hated him so much. James Harrison had been a thief. His own behavior had caused the heart attack that killed him. Ian felt no guilt over it.
He did pity the family and especially Mrs. Harrison. Her suicide had shocked him, but James Harrison’s behavior should be blamed for that. Brad Harrison ought to blame his father for the family’s misfortune, not an outsider. The guy had to be some type of nut case. His attempt to run down Cassie Blake proved it.
Ian gripped the steering wheel hard. Lucky for Harrison nothing had happened to Cassie. If he had hurt her in any way, Ian would have killed him.
Sudden intense cold gripped Ian. Cassie. How had Harrison known about her? He must have learned about her visit to the office. The note had given him a hint, and he had used it to frame Bert. Her disruption of his attempts to kill Ian must have rankled.
During the last attack, the gunman had mentioned ‘getting the Blake bitch out of the way,’ so he knew Cassie’s name. The thought of her and Brad refused to go away.
Cassie knew Bert. She thought he was Harrison. She didn’t know Brad Harrison was masquerading as Justin Lord. She had never met Justin.
She hadn’t answered when he phoned, so she must be away. Maybe she was out shopping, had gone to a movie, or had visited a friend. Or something.
Still, what if Harrison decided to get rid of her? No, he had no reason to do that — unless, unless he had somehow heard her phone message to Ian. That thought smacked of paranoia.
The light ahead turned red, and Ian hit his brake. Damn! Why didn’t they have these lights properly timed? Brad had no reason to attack Cassie, no reason at all.
The light turned green, and Ian zoomed ahead. Cassie didn’t know Brad and couldn’t link him to Justin. Unless ... unless Brad went to see her. If he told Cassie his name was Justin Lord she would put two and two together just as Ian had. But why would he do that? The thought of little Cassie facing muscular Brad/Justin made for horrible possibilities.
Cassie lived in Clintonville, not far from where he was now. He could swing by her house and check on her. If she wasn’t there, he’d go on to Justin’s. Five minutes couldn’t make much of a difference.
* * * *
Being trapped in the basement with Brad Harrison thoroughly frightened Cassie. He would kill her. Days might pass before anyone found her. Then he would kill Ian, but Ian would be on his guard. She didn’t have to worry about Ian. She only had to save herself.
Cassie stumbled, and the hard barrel of the gun jabbed against her spine.
“Watch it bitch, or I’ll shoot you right here. Make an awful mess of your nice clean kitchen.”
“Why do you want to kill me?” Her stomach clenched and her pulse raced. “You can get away, if you leave now. I won’t tell anyone.”
“You’ve already messed things up for me. You heard McLeod’s message. You’ve blown my cover. How did you find out anyway? They don’t keep that kind of data.”
“They can’t now, but Justin was born in 1972. They kept racial origin in the records then.”
“Damn it.” He snarled at her and waved the gun. “Move it. I have to take of care of McLeod.”
He pushed her hard, and she almost fell. Cassie grabbed the table for support. Her fingers grasped the tablecloth. Maybe she could dislodge the glass vase and break it. If she threw the vase at Brad, it would distract him. She tightened her fingers on the cloth.
The gun came down hard.
“Ouch," Cassie yelped in surprise and pain. She clutched her hand to her chest and sucked at her fingers. “That hurt.”
"So?” He shoved her past the table. “No tricks.”
She stopped in front of the door to the basement. The gun poked her again. She turned the handle, but the door didn’t open.
“It’s stuck. It always sticks.” With luck, she wouldn’t be able to open it.
“Try it again.”
She struggled with the door again, but it didn’t budge. “See? I told you.”
“Get over there by the stove and don’t move.” Brad motioned with the gun as he shifted it to his left hand. “I can shoot with either hand so don’t get any ideas.”
Cassie scrambled toward the stove and looked for a weapon. Her carving knife set occupied the back of the counter near the sink, but too far away to help.
Brad reached for the door with his right hand.
* * * *
Ian made a left hand turn onto Sycamore, Cassie’s street. She had said she lived halfway down the tree-lined street in a Victorian, two-story frame house with the kitchen all the way at the back to catch the morning sun. He parked in front and climbed the steps to the porch. He knocked at the door, but no one answered. She must be out. He turned to go, but as he did, a glitter caught his eye. He leaned down and poked at the small object.
A gold earring. He picked it up and studied it. Where had he seen it before?
As he stared down at the earring in his hand, his vision blurred. Justin’s desk drawer. He had seen one identical to this one in Justin’s desk. Justin. His insides twisted as he made the connection. Cassie’s house. Justin, no make that B
rad, had been here.
Ian tried the door, but the handle wouldn’t move. It was locked. He peered through the tiny window of the door, but saw only the entry hall. Could Brad have taken Cassie somewhere? His instincts said no.
He raced down the steps and around the side of the house. Near the back of the house, a black Harley Davidson stood parked in the alley next to the garage.
He stopped short as the implication of the motorcycle hit him like a sledgehammer. Brad had come for Cassie. He hadn’t left. He must be inside with her. She was in danger. If Brad hurt her...
NO. That couldn’t happen. Ian wanted his fingers around Brad’s throat.
He raced up the back steps to the kitchen door. The door rattled, but refused to open. Locked like the front one.
Ian pounded on the door. “Cassie. Cassie, open up. Brad, if you’re in there, I’ll get you. Leave her alone. It’s me you want. Open up and let me in.”
Ian hit the door with his shoulder. He had to get inside. He’d bust the damn door down and every bone in Brad’s body. He lifted his foot to kick the door in and put all his strength behind it.
Just before his foot hit, the door opened. The force of his rush carried him past the door and on into the kitchen. A wide-eyed Cassie stared in horror as he hit the table on the far side and crashed to the floor. He lay there panting for breath. The place where his head hit the table throbbed.
He stared up at the familiar face of Justin Lord gazing down at him, only he wasn’t Justin. He was Brad Harrison.
How could he have worked with the man everyday and not recognized how twisted he was? Ian had thought of Justin as a nice, ambitious college kid, not as a devious would-be killer. He shook his head and groaned.
Brad grinned down at him, “How nice of you to drop by.” He motioned with the gun. “Just join your girlfriend over there. Now I can take care of you both.”
Cassie rushed forward to Ian. She brushed the hair from his eyes and gently touched his forehead.