by Adrianne Lee
“Well, that’s the thing. The very fact that there’s controversy over how he was injured makes me wonder how seriously he was injured. But hospital and doctor records are confidential and I can’t lay my hands on any of them.”
Remembering Wally’s illegal possession of the Bradley girl’s police case records, he knew scruples weren’t keeping Wally from laying his hands on the records. He just didn’t know anyone who could get the information for him.
“So, we hit another wall.” Andy rolled her neck. God, why couldn’t she just see his face?
“Not necessarily, sweetheart. There are other ways to find out if Gene is faking or not.” Jack glanced at Wally. “What about Minna Kroft?”
“Minna?” Andy reared back in surprise. “Surely you don’t suspect Minna of being Nightmare Man?”
Jack reached for his coffee cup and took a long swallow. Why not Minna? She’s the right age, and she stomped the scorpion to death before we could capture it and use it for evidence. And there are those rifle trophies. While Andy knew all this, Jack realized she probably needed someone to trust, and Minna had been kind to her. He kept his voice gentle. “Strictly to be on the safe side, I asked Wally to check her out.”
Andy scraped back her chair and stood. She walked to the sink and dumped out the rest of her coffee.
Wally referred to his notes. “Minna moved here a year or so before your parents were killed. A widow. Her husband died in a car crash. Left her the money to buy this place. Apparently this was a favorite vacation spot of theirs.”
So much for how well Minna had known the Woodworths and Andy’s grandmother. He’d like to scratch her off his suspect list, but how could he? He shoved back his chair and carried his own cup to the sink. “About all we know is that all of our suspects had means and possible motive.”
Frustration filled Andy, pressing against her temples like some painful vise gripping tighter and tighter. She could solve this whole thing. If she could just remember. But she couldn’t. “This is getting us no closer.”
Jack caught her gently by the shoulders and spun her toward him. The disheartened flatness in her eyes tore at him. He knew some of her distress would leave when she’d had time to sleep. But right now she needed reassurance that they could figure out who Nightmare Man was before he figured out some way to stop them.
He brushed a kiss across her forehead, then gazed into her beautifully unique eyes. “It’s nearly two, sweetheart. Maybe there is something we can do.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Wally. “Andy and I have an appointment at Gene Mott’s house and somehow, before we leave there today, we’re going to learn the truth about his paralysis.”
AFTER GIVING WALLY the task of driving to Virginia City to find out who held legal title to the Woodworths’ old homestead, Andy and Jack set out for Gene Mott’s house.
As they rounded the corner by the Golden Broom, Jack glanced down at Andy and his thoughts skipped to the feel of her beneath him, thoughts that tended to wipe the purpose of their mission right out of his mind. But the moment Andy gazed up at him, he saw again that she wasn’t wearing her colored contacts. He liked her eyes best this way, but they made him acutely aware of who she was and just how much danger her very identity put her in.
Deciding he’d better concentrate on that, Jack reached for her hand, receiving and giving reassurance. Although she looked tense, Andy rewarded him with a grateful smile.
At the very end of Ruby Lane, one block below Duke Plummer’s, sat Gene’s house, a large one-story with the appearance of recent remodeling. The front yard was ringed with a short wrought-iron fence. They walked through the gate, past the small patch of clipped green lawn, stopping to examine the concrete walk that separated well-tended flower beds from the grass.
“The perfect walkway to accommodate a wheelchair-bound gardener,” Jack whispered.
“If Gene isn’t paraplegic, he’s gone to a lot of trouble to keep up the sham.” Andy’s stomach ached with anxiety. She nodded to the wide ramp leading to the front veranda and another angled at the side of the house, apparently for access from a back door. “Who would keep up such a pretense for twenty years?”
“Someone who feared lifetime incarceration.” Jack followed her to the front door. “Don’t forget, he’s built a successful career pretending to be a woman.”
“But he could have moved away. Changed his name. Still had his career.”
“Not with the threat of your returning one day to point the finger at him.”
“I should think that would send him fleeing.”
“No, sweetheart, fleeing would make him look guilty. Think about it. As long as he stayed here and made no effort to hide, made himself look helpless, gained people’s sympathy and respect, how much of a threat could you be? Even if you did show up one day, it would be your word against a popular and wealthy man’s. After all, you were only five years old. He’d probably sue you for defamation of character, claim—since you also write novels—that you were picking on him because of professional jealousy.”
Impotent rage swirled inside Andy. “Are you saying he could get away with murdering my parents-even if I were to remember he was Nightmare Man?”
“Not as long as there’s a breath in this body.” Jack kissed her forehead. “What I’m saying is—don’t let the props fool you.”
Before Jack could knock, the door swung open.
“Thought I heard voices out here.” Cliff, his face red, his body slick with a fine film of sweat, wore only running shoes and jogging shorts. His white blond hair flopped over his forehead. His gaze immediately crawled over Andy, and as usual she wanted to slap him. He stepped aside, inviting them indoors. “Uncle and I have been working out.”
“He invited us over.” Andy glanced at her watch. Usually punctual to a fault, she saw they were ten minutes late. “Perhaps I got the time wrong?”
“No, he’s expecting you.”
Odd, Andy thought, that he’d schedule his workout for the same time he’d invited guests. Or was it calculated? Was this his way of controlling what he could of situations? Or did he want them to see him in his gym?
The entry smelled of lemon wax, and the oak floors gleamed as if recently polished. The interior was all clean lines and simple furnishings, giving the living room a spacious, tidy appearance. Gram would definitely have approved.
Cliff led them to the gym. The doorway was wide enough to oblige two wheelchairs side by side. Mirrors lined three of the walls, and the fourth held a plate-glass window overlooking Ruby Lane. No doubt he’d seen them coming.
Gene, his upper body—muscles bulging—clad in a tank top, his lower half in sweatpants, stood with his back to them. In the mirror Andy could see that his usually ghostly face was flushed as he held himself erect between parallel bars—the kind of thing used in physical therapy to help patients relearn to walk. Her heart hitched. Was Gene able to walk?
“Uncle!” Cliff cried, his voice ringing with alarm.
Gene jerked around, startled. His legs buckled and he dropped to the floor, his chin whacking one metal bar as he collapsed.
Chapter Fourteen
Andy and Jack had been gone an hour when Wally emerged from the motel cabin and started down the path for the parking lot. He hadn’t wanted to worry them, but he’d felt a little light-headed before they left. This infernal heat. Sun beating down on these flatroofed cabins. Hadn’t Minna Kroft heard of air conditioning?
Of course, this darned heartburn didn’t help. Too much caffeine. “Give it up,” the doctor said. How the hell did he do that after fifty years? Doctors and their rules. He pulled in a deep breath. His short nap had brought back his equilibrium. Despite still being a bit tired from loss of sleep the night before, he felt, if not great, then good.
He palmed his car keys, noticing a slight tremor in his hand. Maybe “good” was too generous. He clasped the keys tighter. Nerves were shot. He was losing his edge. Getting old. And it annoyed the hell out of him. But m
aybe the nerves were to be expected—what with Junior and that sweet Miss Woodworth coming within a cat’s hair of being killed.
But which of their suspects was Nightmare Man? The question stopped him. He ran a hand over his crew cut. There’d been something…something he’d meant to mention to Junior. Damn. What was it? Now that he thought about it—since last night after dinner in the hotel, something had been nagging him.
He’d seen something or someone in the hotel dining room that reminded him eerily of Jack senior—or of the time right around Jack senior’s death. The heat seemed to evaporate the breath from his lungs. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief and started walking again.
The inability to recall whatever it was exasperated him. He kicked at a stone in his path, nearly striking a big, furry black cat as it emerged from the underbrush. Wally drew a sharp breath. The cat started, arched its back and glared at him.
“Sorry, fellah.” Grinning at himself, Wally squatted to the cat’s level with the intention of making amends. Somehow the cat looked familiar. “Say, do I know you?”
It struck him like a welcome breeze that this big black cat with the stubby tail and yellow eyes looked like the one Karen Bradley had described to her parents. Outlaw. He reached a hand toward the cat, half expecting it to take off. Instead, it rubbed its head against his knuckles. Wally grinned and stroked the animal’s head. “Friendly cuss, aren’t you?”
It occurred to him then that he’d never gotten around to asking Minna Kroft about Karen Bradley and her cat. Not that it would matter much to anyone now, he supposed, except perhaps the Bradleys. Hell, no wonder he’d lost his edge. He was getting downright soft lately. Sentimental. Caring about a bum like Gus Dillard. About complete strangers like the Bradleys. But darn it all, his heart went out to them, suf fering as they were. If someone had killed his daughter Brandi…Well, it would just rip his heart out, that’s what.
Maybe Minna would tell him some nice anecdote about Karen, something he could relate to her parents that would ease their suffering, if only slightly. He scooped up the cat and strolled into the motel office. Minna was nowhere to be seen, but at the sound of the bell, she called out from somewhere in back, “Be right there.”
The small office looked like a home for wayward cats. Wally liked the animals, but this seemed a bit much. He wondered if they kept the widow company during the off-season.
Minna appeared from the hallway. One look at him holding the cat and her amber eyes shone with surprise and awe. “Satan don’t usually take to strangers. You’re a cat lover, aren’t ya?”
Wally nodded, rubbing the purring feline under the jaw. “I used to have a big guy like this one.” Maybe he should get another.
“Really?” Minna beamed. “Why don’t ya come have some iced tea with me and tell me all about him?”
Wally glanced at his watch. It was still early and iced tea sounded great. He supposed he could spare a few minutes.
JACK AND CLIFF SPARED no haste reaching Gene. Andy stood to one side, horrified and frightened. They’d wanted proof that Gene Mott wasn’t Nightmare Man. Well, they’d just gotten it.
“Didn’t I warn you about trying that without me, Uncle? You’re too worn out from yesterday afternoon’s riding.”
Gene rubbed his jaw where it had struck the bar. “I’m stronger than you give me credit for.”
Cliff rolled his eyes behind his uncle’s back.
“Just get me in my chair.”
Jack reached to help Cliff, but Gene shrank from him as though he didn’t like being touched. “Cliff and I can manage.”
Jack stepped back.
Andy watched Cliff fuss over his uncle in a way that reminded her of a…nurse? Of course. Why hadn’t she realized sooner? A would-be stud like old Cliffie could hardly be satisfied hanging out year-round in this small town waiting for the summers and the influx of young women. He wasn’t here for the fun of it. He was a paid companion and male nurse for his uncle. Despite his obvious faults, Andy found herself thinking better of him.
Once in his chair, Gene lifted one leg, then the other, onto the footrests.
Jack leaned against the wall, glanced out the window overlooking the front walk, then back at Gene, trying to figure out if the fall had been staged for their benefit, timed to their arrival. Or had it been genuine? “Must be some procedure getting you on a horse, Gene.”
“It’s not as complicated as you seem to imagine.” Twin spots of peach dotted Gene’s snowy cheeks, the color as unnatural on his ghoulish face as rouge on a corpse. But what had caused the blush—the fall or Jack’s impudence? Gene lifted his chin; a red welt adorned a small area just above his jawline. “The stable has a ramp that puts me level with the horse’s back and my upper body, as you can see, is quite strong.”
“Still,” Jack persisted, “it must require some assistance?”
Gene seemed to be having trouble regaining his breath. Or was he just angry and having trouble re gaining his inner calm? “A little. Why the curiosity about my riding abilities, Jack? I thought you’d ac companied Ms. Hart here so she could see my diaries.” Gene turned his cool blue eyes on Andrea. “Or should I call you, Ms. Woodworth?”
Andy had known this was coming and was braced for it. Nonetheless, the chilly eeriness of his eyes sent a shiver down her spine. “Why not…Andy?”
“As you wish.” He glanced back at Jack.
Jack dropped his gaze to Gene’s legs. Were they as wasted as they seemed in the baggy sweatpants or were the pants baggy to hide solid, muscled legs? If only Gene had let him help Cliff lift him into his chair, he’d have known for sure. As it was, he couldn’t believe the evidence of his own eyes. Couldn’t be certain the fall hadn’t been staged.
“And how about you, Jack?” Gene’s voice sliced through his dark suspicions. “Is Black your real name?”
Jack raised his gaze to Gene’s. “A stage name. But you can still call me Jack.” If Gene wasn’t going to pull his punches, neither was Jack. “You and Duke looked like you’d been doing something more strenuous than riding yesterday. How’d you both get so dirty and sweaty?”
“Ah. Now all is clear.” Gene laughed without mirth. “We’d been racing—as fast as the horses could carry us across a very dusty field. Riding that fast is one of the few physical pleasures I can still enjoy.”
Jack pressed his lips together. Gene’s answer was plausible. Pity diluted Jack’s suspicions. He understood the pleasure of riding a stallion at breakneck speed. He’d gotten dirty and sweaty plenty of times himself doing just that.
“Perhaps we should let Gene get some rest after his fall,” Andy said, gazing at Jack. “I can always see the diaries another day.”
Gene raised a hand in protest. “Nonsense. I insist.”
He shooed Cliff away. “I can manage. Why don’t you go shower?”
Cliff shrugged. “Sure. See you in a few.” He spun on his heel and disappeared through the doorway.
“Please follow me.” Gene set the wheelchair in gear and led them out of the gym and through the living room to the back of the house.
Here, double wide doors accessed an office any writer would kill for. One long wall was solid bookshelves, another displayed poster-sized photos of his book covers, a third was all window and looked out toward the Madison Mountain Range. The view stole Andy’s breath with its vividness.
“The diaries are on the desk.” Gene pointed to the massive oak desk that sat in the center of the room. There was no chair, just a clear floor mat on the pale green carpet. His desk, much like her own in Seattle, supported a computer and a laser printer, several books and a closed folder that likely contained a manuscript in progress. File cabinets occupied the same wall as the doorway.
Andy shifted her large purse across her shoulders. With all the uproar of the past few days, writing had been put on a back burner. Even if she had really come here just to peruse the diaries, she’d never be able to concentrate on her book. Not until this was behind her. The s
udden realization that she wasn’t going to meet her deadline for the first time ever added another tier of distress to her already overloaded nerves.
She started toward the desk, but froze, her muscles tensing, her mouth drying as her attention snagged on one of the framed posters. It depicted a giant bird claw on a solid black background with each talon tipped in red. Like blood. Without looking around at Gene, she willed her stomach to settle and asked, “How did you get interested in horror?”
“Probably the way most horror writers started—as a fan of Stephen King’s. Reading his stories not only gave me pleasure but triggered my imagination. The old ‘what if.’ And I found myself coming up with a new twist here, a new twist there.”
Andy had read one or two of his “twists,” and in her opinion Stephen King had nothing to fear from Gene Mott, even though his books were recently-upon release—all automatically hitting the New York bestseller lists.
She turned to face Gene, aware of Jack’s presence, gaining courage from his presence. “Did you know my father?”
The switch of subjects didn’t seem to bother Gene. “Everyone who grew up in this town knew your father. I considered him a friend.”
“You never married.” Jack dropped the statement like a bombshell, but the only one it seemed to affect was Andy.
She glanced at him as he moved beside her, wondering why he’d asked this particular question, but his silvery green eyes weren’t giving anything away.
Gene also glanced at Jack and moved his chair closer to them. “No, Jack. The only woman I ever loved, loved another. An old story, no longer sad, just tedious.”
Andy’s heartbeat accelerated as she instantly understood Jack’s motive: he was trying to find out if Gene had also been smitten with her mother. It was all she could do to keep from asking the woman’s name.
Sunlight reached in through the picture window and glinted off something hanging from the steering knob of the wheelchair. Andy’s gaze went to the source of the reflection and her stomach dropped to her toes. It appeared to be a golden three-pronged hook of some kind—very like whatever had been used to slice her wrist. Her right hand covered her left wrist where Gram’s bracelet now banded, yet didn’t conceal, the old scar. She pointed at the object. “W-what’s that?”