HOT ON HIS TRAIL

by Linda Winstead Jones

  "No," Norman said, looking around to see if anyone present was running for a telephone. "It was the one bit of crucial information the police managed to keep out of the papers."

  "Then how did she know?" he hissed, grabbing Norman's shoulders. "How did Polly know the blood and paint were found under my kitchen table?"

  "She did?" Norman asked, setting his grill brush aside.

  Tom took a step forward. "Yes, she did."

  Nick looked toward the house, hoping for a glimpse of Shea through one of the big windows. "Where's Shea?" he asked hoarsely.

  Lauren licked her lips nervously. "I saw her and Polly go into the house awhile back. They didn't come back out, so I figured they went over to Polly's for a while."

  Nick took off running.

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  « ^ »

  Shea's feet went numb and her eyelids grew heavy. Her arms tingled strangely and it seemed, for a moment, that her body was not her own. Suddenly, she wanted a nap more than anything in the world.

  Polly continued to rummage through the drawers in the kitchen, making lots of noise as she searched for those pictures of Gary and Margaret. Shea had a sinking feeling there were no pictures.

  The noise in the kitchen stopped, and a minute later Polly appeared with a short stack of Polaroids in one hand. She smiled sweetly and sat primly on the couch, took a sip of her own tea and fanned the pictures out so she could see them all. She tilted her head as she studied one particular photograph.

  "How was your tea?"

  "Lovely," Shea said, her lips feeling thick and somehow wrong. Ack, the stuff had been awful.

  Polly took another sip, set her cup aside and rose slowly to her feet. "Would you care for more?"

  "No, thank you," Shea said, trying to shake her head and finding that she couldn't. More than her toes were numb.

  Polly glanced down into Shea's empty teacup and smiled. "Good girl, you drank every drop."

  Shea knew what had happened. She couldn't move; keeping her eyes open was an effort. But for now, her mind continued to work. "What was in the tea?"

  "Sleeping pills," Polly said with a smile. "And since you were a good girl and drank it all down, I'll let you see the pictures."

  Polly held out the fanned Polaroids for Shea's inspection. They were of Gary, but Margaret was nowhere to be seen. Just Gary. On his knees in the backyard, on his belly with his head bashed in, rolled onto his back, before and after he'd been painted green.

  "He was a vile excuse for a human being," Polly said tersely. "No one will ever miss Gary. That's one of the reasons I married him. I knew the right time would come, that there would be someone convenient to blame his death on."

  "But what about Nick?" Shea whispered. He wasn't a vile human being, he hadn't done anything wrong … but Polly had no misgivings about using him as her scapegoat. Shea's eyes drifted closed. She tried, but could no longer keep them open. "Not fair."

  "Poor Nick, he will be quite distraught when you're dead, I imagine."

  Nick. He'd been watching from the woods. Did he know that something was terribly wrong? Or was he still waiting for the murderer to make his move? Shea felt herself slipping into darkness, but she didn't want to go. Not yet.

  "They'll know," she said softly. "You won't get away with murder twice."

  Polly was not concerned. "You came over here to discuss the case, distressed that your amateur sleuthing turned up no other suspects. You decided that Nick was guilty after all, and were so upset I suggested that you stay and rest until you'd composed yourself. While I was across the street, collecting my casserole dish and saying a long and leisurely good-night to my hosts, you found my sleeping pills and took them." She tsked. "What a silly, silly girl."

  Polly lifted Shea's uncooperative arm and wrapped her fingers around a small plastic prescription bottle. Fingerprints. That chore accomplished, she carefully placed the empty bottle on the table by Shea's empty teacup.

  If Shea could open her eyes, maybe she could force herself to stay awake a little longer. But she couldn't open them, and no matter how hard she tried, the darkness crept steadily onward.

  "And besides," Polly whispered, "I've already gotten away with murder twice. My first husband was as wretched and expendable as Gary, only I didn't know it when I married him. I had to find out the hard way. No one will miss either of my dearly departed husbands," she hissed. "But I have a feeling Nick will miss you. So sad. You should have minded your own business."

  A shudder worked its way through Shea's body, and everything went black.

  * * *

  "Call the police!" Nick shouted as he ran across Norman's side yard. "Tell them I'm here. That'll get them here quick enough."

  God, he prayed it would be quick enough. Polly!

  He no longer thought about hiding, but ran directly across the street and into Polly's front yard. He leaped to the porch and tried the door. Locked. There was no time to dig around for Shea's mutilated credit card, so he kicked the door in. It gave on the first kick and swung in with a bang.

  "Shea!"

  He managed to startle Polly, who jumped away from the chair where Shea slumped, her eyes closed and her limbs slack.

  "What did you do to her?" he whispered hoarsely.

  Polly, not so mousy this evening, regained her composure quickly. Her eyes flashed; her jaw clenched. "I gave her enough sleeping pills to kill a man twice her size," she said calmly. "You're too late."

  He dropped down in front of Shea's slack body, reaching out to touch her throat. Her skin felt warm, and he found her pulse without difficulty. It was weak, thready and irregular, but she was alive. If he could get her to a hospital in time…

  "Why didn't you just run?" Polly asked, sounding annoyed. "You could have ruined everything by coming back here and raising all your pesky questions. All you had to do was keep running."

  He ignored Polly and very gently picked Shea up, easing her out of the chair and into his arms. He waited for her to squirm, to place her arms around his neck and hold on to him, the way she did when she rested in his arms. She didn't.

  His heart sank, and he couldn't breathe. The world closed in until there was nothing but the two of them. He willed Shea to open her eyes, but she remained too still. Unresponsive and slack in his arms.

  Polly might've administered the sleeping pills, but he had killed Shea. If he had never panicked and escaped, if he had controlled himself and let Norman handle the case through appeals and private investigators … he'd be in jail for the rest of his life, but Shea would be alive.

  Polly made an attempt to stop him, but he easily pushed her back and carried Shea out the open front door. Norman, Tom and Carter waited in the cul-de-sac, and the Cassons stood on their front porch, watching. As Nick walked down the front steps, three police cars, lights flashing and sirens blaring, pulled onto the street.

  He could put Shea down and run, through the woods and into another neighborhood, where he'd disappear, or he could stand here and hold her awhile longer. In truth, it was no choice at all.

  He walked slowly toward the curb, dipping his head toward Shea's. "I love you," he whispered. "You have to know that."

  The uniformed police officers left their cars, weapons in hand and trained on him.

  "Call an ambulance," he said hoarsely. "Shea…" On the chance that she made it, that Polly was wrong about the dosage being lethal, he had to make sure she was never implicated in this. "The hostage needs to get to the hospital."

  The police did not respond. Three eager armed officers, two of them appearing to be younger than Shea, were poised to fire.

  A strident voice cried from behind him. "He killed her!" Polly shouted from the porch. "Shoot him. Shoot him!"

  A couple of the officers, standing spread-legged by their cars, looked as if they were considering the suggestion.

  "Wait just a minute," Norman said with authority, bursting forward to intervene. "My client is unarmed, and he's willing to c
ome along peacefully. Isn't that right, Nick?"

  "After they radio for an ambulance."

  "Done," Tom said, holding his cell phone aloft. "They're on their way."

  In the middle of the Winkler yard, Nick dropped to his knees. After the run from Norman's to Polly's his leg was weak, unable to hold him and Shea up any longer.

  One of the officers, the more senior one, moved forward. "Put the girl down and very slowly lie down on your stomach with your arms outstretched."

  "I'm not putting her down," Nick said, glaring up at the officer. "When the ambulance gets here and she's on the way to the hospital, then I'll do whatever you say. Until then leave me the hell alone."

  Nick looked down at Shea. Her face was pale, her lips parted. To keep himself from falling apart he focused on those small, pale freckles sprinkled across her nose.

  "I can't do that," the officer said.

  "Then shoot me," Nick growled.

  "My client is naturally upset, but he's not presenting a danger to anyone," Norman said, stepping forward. "If we all stay calm and wait for the ambulance, we can get out of here tonight without anyone else getting hurt."

  Nick raised his arm to brig Shea's face close to his. The cops and Norman stayed clear, so no one else was close enough to hear, if he kept his voice low. "More than anything, I wish we could start over," he whispered. "I can thank you for that, too. After everything that happened, I was ready to give up. I didn't think there was any way I could bear to start over with nothing again, but if I could start over with you I would. You gave me my life back." And he would just as soon die if he ended up taking hers.

  "Open your eyes, Shea," he commanded softly. "Look at me."

  Another car, unmarked but with a throbbing red light on the dash, swerved in behind the police cars. More police cars followed. Nick glanced up as a man in a black suit, white shirt and loosened dark tie jumped from the car, badge in hand as he walked past the stalled police officers.

  The man's appearance got Polly stirred up again. "Taggert poisoned her! He killed her! Shoot him!"

  The detective approached slowly, but Nick barely noticed. Shea stirred in his arms, very subtly, and barely opened her eyes. "Nick didn't try to poison me," she rasped. "She did." With that, she lifted her arm and pointed at Polly. She turned her attention to the detective who hovered over them. "And Luther, she killed her husband. She even has pictures."

  Polly ran into the house and Luther took off after her. Nick didn't watch, but lowered his head until it was so close to Shea's his cheek brushed hers. "You're awake. Thank God you're awake. Polly said she gave you enough sleeping pills to—to…" He couldn't say it.

  "I knew something was wrong," she said, her words slow and careful. "The tea was so bitter, even for herbal tea. I dumped most of it in the philadem … the philonem … the plant," she finished, letting her eyes close again. "But I drank some of it, and I am so tired. Nick, I've never been so tired."

  "You'll be okay," he said, smiling. Believing it.

  She snuggled against his chest. "Do sleeping pills make you hallucinate?" she whispered.

  "I don't know."

  "I could've sworn you said you loved me," she breathed into his ear. "But that can't be right. Can it? I'm just … we just…"

  "You're not hallucinating," he said softly. "I do love you." He heard the ambulance siren approaching. It didn't matter what happened to him now. Shea was going to be all right.

  With a great amount of effort, Shea lifted one arm to drape around his neck. She smiled and raked her cheek against his shoulder, nuzzling him like a cat. "Oh, that's good. That's very good."

  Norman held the police back, and Luther led a handcuffed Polly Winkler from her house. The street and the yards were filled with onlookers. All eyes were on him. Nick sat on the ground and held Shea close, not caring who watched. Not caring what anyone thought.

  "How about I call you when I get out of jail?" he asked.

  "You're not going to jail," Shea said, snuggling against him, warm and alive. "You're innocent. They have Polly now."

  He was innocent of murder, but not of assaulting two deputies, escaping from the courthouse and taking Shea hostage on camera. At least if he ended up doing time for those crimes, his penance would be for offenses he'd actually committed.

  A few of the police cars pulled out of the way, making room for the ambulance that turned onto the street. His time was almost up.

  "I do love you," he said again.

  Shea smiled, closed her eyes and passed out once more.

  * * *

  She hated hospitals! It was bad enough to be a visitor in one, but to be forced to stay here was sheer torture.

  Her brothers had still not forgiven her for sneaking out or for sending them on a wild-goose chase, but since she had been wounded in the line of duty, so to speak, they were behaving tolerably.

  Boone had fetched her a pair of her own pajamas from her apartment, and Clint had brought her a milkshake when she complained about the hospital food. And she hadn't been here a full day.

  Nick was back in jail, an injustice that made her blood boil. If he hadn't escaped, no one would ever know that he was innocent of murder, and no one would ever know that Polly Winkler had taken out a big insurance policy on Gary and then killed him, or that it was the second time she'd committed the crime. Polly wasn't even her real name. She'd changed her identity after being suspected of the first murder she'd committed, years ago.

  With her fingerprints, the whispered confession to Shea, the juicy information Grace had managed to dig up with the help of her hacker friends, and Luther's dogged determination to discover all the facts, everything was coming together nicely.

  So why was Nick still in jail? Why wasn't he here? Dean told her the wheels of justice turned slowly, and she had borrowed a few of Boone's choice words to respond to that bit of brotherly wisdom.

  She had never been patient and she didn't intend to start now.

  Looking up at her brothers, she smiled. "I get out of here in a few hours."

  "We'll take you home," Clint said. "And stay with you as long as you need us."

  "I'm sorry I had to trick you, but…" The expression on Dean's face told her he did not want to be reminded that he'd wasted half a day chasing Greyhound buses. "You know I love you. And I know you love me. I know you would do anything for me."

  Anything. Oh, she hoped that was true.

  * * *

  Nick was surprised to see Detective Luther Malone arrive to escort him from the Madison County Jail for the last time. Almost as surprised as he was to be released after spending just under three days in jail.

  The detective offered Nick a lemon drop, and when Nick declined, Malone popped the candy into his own mouth. "Just thought I'd bring you up to date on your case. The detective who was in charge has taken an early retirement. It was that or he fired, since he screwed up so bad." Malone cast a weary glance in Nick's direction. "Though I can't say I wouldn't have made some of the same mistakes. The woman you knew as Polly Winkler set things up pretty solid."

  "Yes, she did."

  "She's done this before, you know—taken out a second insurance policy on her husband and then made sure she collected." He cast a wary glance at Nick. "You know Ray and Grace?"

  "Not really."

  "They found the second insurance policy. The company had never questioned paying, because we had you, and the case was so solid. I was headed to the Winkler woman's house to question her about it before I got the call that you were there." Malone shook his head. "She looked so normal, right up until the end. Your everyday, average housewife. It's enough to make any man think twice about getting married," he added with a shake of his head.

  Married.

  "Anyway," Malone continued, "Daniels is gone, and since we had to bring in another detective, a damned rookie, I've ended up with a partner again. He's this young, enthusiastic whippersnapper who will probably never take anything at face value. So, we're all being punis
hed, if that makes you feel any better."

  It didn't make Nick feel any better. In truth, he didn't care. "How's Shea?" he asked.

  The detective nodded. "She's fine. Smart girl to pour that tea into the plant. If Polly had known she didn't finish it, there's no telling what she might have done."

  The thought gave Nick chills.

  Malone led Nick into the underground garage.

  "So why am I getting out of here? This seems too easy."

  "Oh, it is," Malone agreed with a nod of his head. "You had a little help. A lot of help, to be honest."

  "What kind of help?"

  "Shea Sinclair, weathergirl extraordinaire, promised to make a national issue of your case if you weren't released, and she also claimed that the kidnapping was a planned media stunt. Norman Burgess, annoying twit of a lawyer, threatened to sue, listing a heap of civil rights that were violated. Boone Sinclair managed to convince a state trooper that when he'd thought he'd spotted Shea in a country gas station, he was mistaken. Deputy U.S. Marshal Dean Sinclair called in every favor he was owed to make sure there were no federal charges filed."

  "So, I'm really free to go," Nick said, not quite believing it.

  Detective Malone broke into what had to pass as a grin, for him. "I wouldn't say that," he said, glancing to his right.

  Nick's head turned in that direction, and he saw them. Three men—a cowboy, a thug and a man in a blue suit and burgundy tie—stood before a black sedan with scowls on their faces and their arms folded across their chests.

  "Let me guess," he said. "The Sinclair brothers."

  Malone slapped Nick on the back. "Good luck, buddy."

  * * *

  Chapter 20

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  Nick sat, as directed, in the back seat with Clint, who in truth seemed to be the least threatening of the three. Dean was stony faced, and Boone kept glancing over his shoulder and … growling.

  "Where are we going?" Nick asked, for the fifth time in the past ten minutes. He had yet to get an answer delivered in recognizable syllables.