Dead Even

by Mariah Stewart

  “My God, what happened?” Miranda asked anxiously as Aidan trotted back toward them. “What’s happened to Rob?”

  Before he could answer, Annie ran onto the deck and down the steps.

  “What’s going on?” She grabbed Miranda’s arm. “We heard a shot.”

  “Looks like your ex-brother-in-law showed up right on schedule. We think Rob Flynn took him out,” Miranda said.

  “Good thing I made Mara stay inside. I told her if Julianne woke up, she needed to be in there with her, in case she had heard the shot, too.” Annie bent down and peered at the body. She stared for a long minute, then looked up at Miranda and asked, “Who is this?”

  “Isn’t it Jules?”

  “No.” Annie shook her head.

  “Are you certain?” Miranda bent down next to Annie to get a closer look.

  “Positive. I don’t know who it is, but it isn’t Jules Douglas.”

  “You’re kidding.” Will leaned forward as well, but the face wasn’t familiar to him, either. He reached down and patted the man’s pockets until he found a wallet, then carefully removed it, opened it, and took out the driver’s license.

  “Burton J. Connolly,” Miranda read over Will’s shoulder. “Who is he? I don’t know that name.”

  “I do,” Will told her. “Burton Connolly is the name of the owner of the black pickup that followed us from the prison.”

  “What black pickup? What are you talking about?” Miranda stared at him.

  “When we were leaving the prison—after we spoke with Vince the other day—there was a black pickup parked in the lot. Whoever was behind the wheel picked up a map and held it in front of his face just as we were walking past. Well, naturally, it drew my attention.”

  “Naturally,” Miranda said dryly. “I don’t remember seeing him or the truck.”

  “Well, it was there. I didn’t catch the plate at the time, but I did notice some dings on the rear fender. The day we arrived here, when I went to move the car, the same truck passed by.”

  “How did you know it was the same truck?” she asked.

  “The dings in the back fender. Too much of a coincidence. So I called Evan Crosby and asked him to run the tags for me. The truck is registered to Burton Connolly. How likely do you think it is that there’s another Burton Connolly in the neighborhood this week?”

  “So what do you think happened here?” Annie asked. “You think he knifed Rob, left him for dead, then Rob got a shot or two off before he died?”

  “No way.” Aidan shook his head. “Rob was dead before he hit the ground.”

  He bent over Burt’s body, inspected it, then stood up and said, “I can tell you this much, our friend here didn’t kill Rob.” Aidan stood with his hands on his hips. “Rob’s throat was cut, one fast clean cut, side to side. Whoever killed him would have been sprayed with blood. Even if he’d come at Rob from behind, there’s going to be blood on his hands and arms, at the very least. This guy’s hands, shirt, they’re clean.”

  “Then he was working with someone else,” Annie said, and at that moment, the three agents turned to look at the house.

  “Dear God, Mara . . .” Miranda took off toward the front of the house. “Will . . . the back . . .”

  When Aidan started behind them, Annie grabbed his shirt and held on.

  “No, no,” she told him fiercely. “If Jules is in there, you cannot be a part of this. If you’re planning on marrying my sister, you cannot be the man who brings down her daughter’s father, understand? If Miranda or Will needs help, that will be a different situation. But right now, leave it to them. Get on the phone and get the Lyndon police on their way, but stay out of the house unless they need you in there. If you plan on being that girl’s stepfather, you cannot be involved in Jules’s arrest. . . .”

  “Turn around, Mara, and go on back up the stairs.” Jules stood inside the open front door, his gun pointed at the heart of his ex-wife. “Quietly, but quickly, we’re going to get Julianne, and then the three of us are leaving. Together. That should make you happy.”

  “No,” Mara said softly. “I’ve waited seven years for her to come back. I’m not giving her up. And neither of us is going with you.”

  “She isn’t yours to give or to keep. She’s mine,” Jules sneered. “I’m out of time and well out of patience, Mara. Get her. Now. I don’t have time to discuss this, and I don’t have time to argue.”

  “I can’t let you take her back there, Jules. Please. You’ve had her all these years. . . .”

  “Don’t waste your time begging, Mara. And don’t bother to turn on the tears. It’s not going to make a damned bit of difference.”

  “Jules, listen—”

  “I’m out of time, you stupid cow. Move. Get her and bring her down here now, or I’ll shoot you where you stand. I should have done it years ago.”

  “Daddy?” The small voice from the top of the steps floated uncertainly to the room below. “Daddy?”

  “Get your things, and hurry, baby. Daddy’s come to take you back. You and Mommy are coming with me.”

  Julianne, still in her nightgown, started down the steps, her eyes on her father.

  “You said she was dead. You told me she died. Why did you lie to me?”

  “I’ll explain it all later, honey. Just leave your things and come on now, Julianne, we’re out of time. Come with Daddy . . .” Jules held a hand out to her. “Mara, move.”

  “She’s not a bad person. You lied about that, too. Why did you do that? Why did you have to lie?”

  “Sweetheart, I’ll explain everything to you later.” Jules was starting to sweat profusely. “But right now, we have to go.”

  “Why do you have a gun?” Julianne stood next to her mother.

  “Julianne, we’re going now. Do you hear me? Now. Right now.” Jules’s voice rose shrilly. The gun waved shakily in his hand.

  “Jules, put the gun away. You’re frightening Julianne,” Mara pleaded.

  “Out the door. Now.” He reached out for his daughter with his free hand. Julianne took several more steps away from Jules, then her eyes widened with surprise.

  Looking beyond him, an “Oh” escaped her lips.

  Miranda Cahill had two more steps before she’d have reached Jules, but Julianne’s inadvertent warning had removed the element of surprise. He spun around, his finger on the trigger, and the best Miranda could do was to swing one leg in the direction of his gun hand. That one long leg was all it took.

  Jules’s .38 flew across the room. He grabbed Miranda’s leg in midair and flipped her onto her back before diving for his gun at the same time Will came at him from the back hall. Even with his adrenaline in high gear, Jules was no match for Will. Within seconds, Jules was facedown on the living room floor, both hands held behind his back in Will’s strong grip.

  “Cahill, you okay?”

  “I will be in a minute.”

  “Have you got a pair of handcuffs on you?”

  “No.” She lay on her back, trying to regulate her breathing. “Guess you’re just going to have to sit on him until the police get here.”

  “Are you going to arrest my father?” A shaken Julianne stood behind Mara, anxiously holding on to her mother.

  “I’m afraid the police are going to have to take him in, yes,” Miranda told her. To Mara, she said, “Maybe you’ll want to take Julianne upstairs until we’re finished here.”

  “Come on, sweetie.” Mara turned her daughter toward the steps.

  “You won’t keep her, you know. They can’t hold me. I’ll be back, Mara,” Jules snarled as Mara and Julianne climbed the steps. “Don’t think for a minute that you’re going to keep her. Julianne! Come back here!”

  Julianne stared straight ahead until she reached her bedroom door. She went in, still holding her mother’s hand, and closed the door.

  “Bitch,” Jules spat. “You won’t be able to lock me up. I’ll be out by morning. Reverend Prescott will be on the next plane to bail me out.”
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br />   “I doubt it,” Will told him calmly. “There are two dead bodies out there, one of whom is a federal agent. I’m betting the bullet in the other matches that .38 of yours. Besides, something tells me Reverend Prescott has his hands full right now.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jules looked up, his eyes red with fury.

  “I’m talking about the fact that at eight o’clock tonight, a team of federal agents paid a visit to Reverend Prescott. Seems they have some questions for him to answer. I think he’s going to be way too busy to worry about you, Jules. I’m willing to bet he’s not going to give you a second thought. . . .”

  “I want a lawyer,” Jules growled. “You call the compound and tell them I want Robert Springer out here right now.”

  “Springer, eh?” Will grinned and looked up at Miranda. “You hear that, Cahill? Nothing but the best for Prescott and his merry band of pedophiles, I guess.”

  Jules bucked wildly.

  “I’m not a pedophile,” he shouted. “I’ve never . . . I would never . . . you’re disgusting. . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re pure as the driven snow. Only cooked the books, figured out how Prescott could hide the money he made off those poor young girls.” Will, who still sat astride Jules, leaned over and said, “You’re going to prison along with the rest of them, Douglas. I’m only sorry your daughter had to be here to see you go down like this.”

  Flashing lights in the street heralded the arrival of several Lyndon police cruisers and an ambulance.

  “Hey, Jules, looks like your ride is here.” Will stood as three uniformed police officers rushed through the front door. “Here’s your man, fellas. He’s all yours. . . .”

  It was almost three in the morning by the time the last patrol car left Hillside Avenue in peace once again. Inside the house at 1733, Mara Douglas lay awake beside her sleeping daughter, praying that the nightmare was just about over.

  Downstairs, Anne Marie McCall lay awake on the sofa in her sister’s living room and wept for yet another dead agent, wept for his wife, who had yet to be told that she was now a widow, and remembered what it had felt like to get the call that the man she’d loved—the man who held her heart and her dreams—was gone.

  Downtown, in the morgue, Aidan Shields sat beside the body of his friend, and waited for Rob’s younger brother to arrive. The scene was achingly familiar to him, and he wondered if he would ever get used to the feeling of helplessness, of wasted life, useless loss. In the quiet antiseptic room, Aidan wondered if Mara was all right. It had damn near killed him to not rush into her house and take out that son of a bitch ex-husband of hers. But Annie had been right: If he and Mara were ever to build a life together, Aidan could not have been the one to have taken down Julianne’s father.

  In the room next door, on another slab, lay the other body they’d brought in that night. The M.E. had arrived and had already taken fingerprints. The prints and the gun they’d found in his hand had been turned over to the Lyndon police, who would run the prints through NCIC. They’d fire the gun, then test the bullets against those on file. Aidan couldn’t help but wonder what they’d find.

  In Helene West’s living room, Miranda Cahill all but collapsed on the sofa, and rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes, hoping to rub away the fatigue.

  “How’s your back?” Will asked from the doorway.

  “Hurts.”

  “Want me to rub it?”

  “Uh-huh. Just don’t rub anything else, okay?” She turned over and fell facedown on the cushions. “I’m too tired to fight you off.”

  “That would be good news, if I wasn’t too tired to take advantage of you.” He sat on the edge of the sofa and began to knead her shoulders.

  “Ouch. Not so hard.”

  “Better?” He eased up.

  “Ummmm. Much better.”

  He continued to massage her back.

  “So what do you think about taking that little side trip to the inn tomorrow?” he asked.

  “I think yes. We’re due for some R and R.” She tried to nod, but her head barely moved. “Fleming Inn, si. Mrs. West’s sofa, no.”

  He laughed, moving his hands farther down her back.

  “You’ve got great hands, Fletcher. I ever tell you that?”

  Her words were slurred with fatigue.

  “Yes, actually, you have told me that. On several occasions, as a matter of fact. Want me to remind you of specifics?”

  “No need. I remember.” She fought the sleep that threatened to claim her.

  “Maybe in the morning, I should call Mrs. Duffy and reserve her best suite.”

  “Good idea. Reserve it for a couple of days, can you?”

  “Whatever the lady wants.” He smiled in the dark, listening as her breath grew more and more shallow. He knew she was ready to drop off, overwhelmed by the lack of sleep over the past two days and the adrenaline rush of the evening’s events. He was tired enough to sleep standing up.

  “We’ll have to stop at a store first,” she told him groggily, just when he thought she’d fallen asleep. “There’s a nice mall on the way out of town; I should be able to find what I want at one of the stores in there.”

  “What do you want?” He took a pillow from the end of the sofa and tossed it on the floor. He lay down, his head on the pillow, his arms folded under his head.

  “Some pretty little silk scarves. Four should do nicely, I think.” She yawned and turned over.

  “What do you need scarves for?” he asked.

  “Well, you said you couldn’t find your handcuffs. . . .” She paused for effect, encircling one of her wrists with the fingers of the other hand, then whispered, “But I’ve always preferred scarves anyway. I seem to remember you do, too. . . .”

  “Jesus, Cahill,” he groaned, “you’re killing me.”

  “Maybe so, but at least you’ll die with a smile on your face. . . .”

  He could feel her smile through the dark, and he laughed, then sat up and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her onto the floor next to him.

  “Pillow,” she muttered.

  He reached for the one she’d been using and slid it under her head, then pulled her closer.

  “Is the floor too hard for your back?” he asked.

  “It’s okay.” She snuggled into him.

  For a moment, he just enjoyed the sensation of having her this close again.

  “Stay,” she whispered. “Stay this time.”

  “This time and every time,” he told her.

  She was reaching her arms up to draw him close when his phone began to ring.

  “Don’t answer it,” she protested. “Any time the phone rings at two o’clock in the morning, it’s not going to be good news.”

  “It’s three,” he said as he rolled onto one side to retrieve his phone from his pocket and checked the incoming call. “It’s John.”

  “Even worse,” she groaned.

  “Hey, John,” Will said. “Yeah, you heard right . . . yeah, here’s what happened. . . .”

  Will proceeded to walk John through the night’s events. When he finished the call a long twelve minutes later, he turned off the phone and tossed it onto the sofa.

  “We have to be in the office tomorrow for a meeting around four to wrap this Douglas thing up, then we’ll be briefed on the Prescott case. John wants us to fly out to Wyoming day after tomorrow and help track down the girls who have gone missing from the compound over the past few years. Looks like there have been dozens of them, John thinks maybe even hundreds. Genna’s going to be lead on this; we’re going to be working with her.”

  He lay beside Miranda, stroking her hair lightly with his fingers. “Looks like those pretty silk scarves are going to have to wait, babe. But maybe we can leave for Wyoming ahead of the others so that we can have a little time to ourselves. Won’t be the Fleming Inn, but I’m sure we’ll find someplace nice. What do you think? Miranda?”

  He glanced down and realized that she was sound asleep
.

  “Well, that’s okay,” he whispered. “God knows you earned it.”

  Will lay awake in the still house, the only sound Miranda’s gentle breathing, thinking that of all the nights they’d spent together over the past few years, he’d never felt closer to her than he did right at that moment.

  He thought about where they’d been and where they were headed, about the things that had gone wrong between them in the past, and he promised himself that the road ahead would be different from the road they were leaving behind. He whispered that promise to her in the dark, then closed his eyes and joined her in sleep.

  EPILOGUE

  Vince was in the infirmary, waiting for his turn to see the nurse about an annoying rash he had developed over much of his body.

  “Gotta be the lousy crap they wash our clothes with,” he’d grumbled to the guard who’d brought him up.

  The door to the nurse’s office stood open, and Vince could see straight inside to the TV where the noon news was just coming on. He amused himself for a few minutes, listening to the political bullshit that passed for commentary on the elections that would be held in several days. When the anchor moved back to local headlines, Vince almost fell off his chair.

  “. . . body of suspected killer Archer Lowell was found down the road from the farm where true-crime writer Joshua Landry had been killed just days earlier. In an exclusive interview with the local chief of police, this station has learned that the bullets that killed both men were fired from the same gun. In an even more bizarre twist, that gun was found on the body of Burton Connolly, an ex-con who was shot and killed outside a house in Lyndon where the chief financial officer for Reverend Prescott was arrested two nights ago. . . .”

  What the fuck . . . ?

  Vince leaned as close to the open door as he could get when the tape of the arrest in Lyndon began to roll.

  Wow, he thought as he watched the tape. Archer’s dead. Burt-man, too. What the fuck was going on?

  And hey, there’s Blondie, the profiler. What the hell?

  It occurred to him that apparently neither Archer nor Burt had survived long enough to talk to the FBI and bring up his name or they’d have been in his face by now. Thank heaven for small favors, eh?