“Put me down, please,” she asked, clutching the small chest, her voice strangely calm, although the tears still spilled down her face.
He did as he was told.
She stood majestically amid the ruins of her apartment, holding on to the box of ashes as if it was the only thing that mattered to her. “Deputy Carlyle, I’m Emily Jacobson Shepherd of the DEA. I’d like to report a robbery.”
“You’re who?” Kevin asked staring at her as if she were some alien from another planet.
“I’m an undercover agent with the DEA on the trail of the notorious meth cook and murderer, known as the Chef.”
The deputy’s jaw dropped at the name. He’d obviously heard of the man.
“Cal knows my true identity. I report to the Chicago office. As you can see, someone broke into the apartment, destroyed most of what I own, and stole a few items.”
“How can you figure out what’s missing in this mess?”
“Easily. Two of the missing items are evidence bags filled with items I recovered from the murder scene just upriver from where the body was snagged in the brush. The other items he took were my legs.”
“Your legs?” Kevin laughed “And just what the hell are you standing on lady? ...Holy Shit! Where’s your leg?”
“As I said. He stole my prosthetic legs.”
Kevin took out his notebook. “You’d better start at the beginning. Why anyone would be stupid enough to send a woman alone, let alone one with only one damn leg to do a man’s job like this one, makes no sense.”
Jackson bristled at Kevin’s tone. “I’ll remind you to treat Agent Shepherd with respect. She’s a victim here. She doesn’t need any of your male chauvinist bullshit!”
Cal entered the room. “I just got a call. Oh, my God. Emily! Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said clutching the box so tightly her hands were white. She swayed and Jackson reached out to hold her, glad when she leaned into him for support.
“I was out at the homestead with Jackson. He took everything, including my legs. I’m helpless and homeless now.
Jackson picked her up. “I’m taking her back to my place. She can’t stay here. You’d better figure out how he got in because the door was locked when we left and locked when we arrived.”
“Joey!” she cried.
“What about Joey?” Kevin asked. “You don’t think he did this?”
“No, of course not. His parents are in Waterloo. He’s alone. You should check to make sure he’s okay. There’s a key to my apartment for emergency use kept on a pegboard in his father’s office.”
“I’ll check it out. Maybe he heard something. You can’t make a mess like this without being heard.”
Cal nodded, and Kevin left the room.
“Cal, get someone in here to do whatever you need to do. Come out to the Double J in the morning to talk to her.”
Kevin came from the Manning apartment. “Joey’s alive, Looks like he took a hell of a beating. I’ve called the paramedics and Doc Hazlet. You,” he said pointing at Emily. “All of this is your fault. If that boy dies, it’ll be because of you. Why don’t you go the hell back where you came from?”
“Kevin, I’ll ask you to keep a civil tongue in your mouth,” Cal said. “Emily isn’t the one responsible.” He turned to Jackson. “Get her out of here.”
Stepping over the mess, Jackson carried her back to his truck, settled her on the seat, and drove away.
The police had better find the Chef or whoever made this mess before he did, because if he got his hands on the bastard first, he would kill him.
Emily sat sentinel-like on the seat, staring straight ahead, clutching the box to her chest.
“I’ll look after you, Em,” he said. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. Let’s go home.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Kevin is right,” Emily said staring out at the road ahead illuminated by the truck’s headlights. “It was stupid of me to think I could do this job on my own. Now, I’m completely useless, another boy has been seriously injured, vital evidence has been stolen, and my identity has been compromised.”
“You aren’t to blame, and you know it. I find it impossible to believe Mabel or any of her friends could have anything to do with this, especially considering the fact that evidence has been stolen. Everything you know about this case points to the Chef. The only reason he would go to this length to try and confront you in your home is because he knows you can identify him somehow. Maybe there was more than just the victim’s blood in that clearing.”
“What do you mean confronting me? I wasn’t home. He destroyed everything—my clothing, my belongings, my memories. He took it all, even my damn legs.” But the possibility there might’ve been a vital clue to the killer’s identity in the blood surprised her. How could Jackson think of something like that when it hadn’t even crossed her own mind?
“The prosthesis can be replaced as can all the clothing and the furnishings. Other people must have copies of some of those pictures on the floor in your office. A good forensic tech can put them together and reprint them for you. What you hold most dear is in that sealed box which he didn’t touch. Those are Alex’s ashes, right?”
“Alex and the baby,” she admitted realizing what he said was true. “Maybe the bastard is superstitious. I had the baby’s ashes put in with my husband’s. I didn’t want to bury them in El Paso in case I didn’t get back there, and I wasn’t sure where else to take them, so I took them, and the few memories of the life I had with me.
“As a principal, I’ve had the opportunity to observe people. I’d say whoever made that mess today had one granddaddy of a temper tantrum. That place looked like what you’d expect to see when someone went on a rampage. The closest I’ve seen was the video they showed us years ago of a mentally disturbed child who hadn’t gotten his way. So what made him so angry?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the fact that I wasn’t home?”
“Could be, or the fact that those kids didn’t die, and as I understand it, the only reason they didn’t, was because of you. Where are they by the way? I called the hospital to check on them, and they told me they had no record of patients with those names.”
Emily was suddenly wary. “Why did you want to talk to them?” she asked. There was no reason for Jackson to want to see the boys.
“No particular reason. I was looking for Peter. He didn’t come home last night after work, told his father he was camping out with the Olsen’s. Rather unlikely, considering where they are.”
“What did you tell his father?”
“Nothing. I thanked him for the information and then called the hospital. What’s wrong, Emily? Talk to me.”
She swallowed, reminded once more that she had leapt before she’d looked. What did she really know about Jackson Harris? How much of what he told her was even true? If any one of those new teachers were in bed with the Chef, it made sense they’d have nice, neat alibis in place. She needed to tell him something, but what? Given no choice, she chose to dance around the topic. She wasn’t defenseless, she had her gun—but he knew she had it. What if he’d monkeyed with it somehow? Trying to swallow her fear, she spoke as evenly as her terrified body would allow. “They’re in protective custody, but I don’t know where, the US Marshals have them. Cal and I haven’t had time to talk face to face to discuss it, and not knowing whose phone was tapped, comments were generic in nature at best. If the Chef was the one who shot out my tires, he would know I had no car, and if he’s been listening to my phone, he knew I told Cal I’d be home alone all day.”
“Then I’m really glad I went to get you. There’s no telling what he might have done. If I hadn’t decided I wanted to spend time with you, you’d have been there. If he beat Joey that badly—he could’ve killed you.”
She shivered. Or…is this just another scare tactic?
Jackson had seen the suit, knew she had evidence. He could’ve called the Chef, and arranged to have him go in and
destroy her place. It had been Jackson who’d told her to leave the leg behind. What if Jackson had taken her out at the Chef’s behest and was taking her to him right now? She had no proof he wasn’t involved. Now, she was more or less at his mercy. Just because he told Cal he was taking her home didn’t mean he was. “Where are you taking me?” she asked, trying to keep the trepidation out of her voice.
“Back to the homestead, like I told Cal We both know you can’t stay in that apartment tonight.” He turned down the laneway leading to the farmhouse and stopped at the base of the stairs, carrying her in as he had earlier, but instead of going back for the wheelchair and crutches, he turned on the fireplace and sat in the chair across from her, his hands open, palms down on the top of his knees.
“Okay, what gives?” he said. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours that has you ramrod stiff and prickly as a porcupine?”
“How do I know this isn’t all part of the Chef’s plan? I’m defenseless here, far away from any kind of help. How do I know you aren’t in league with him?” Her voice broke on the last question, not only because she couldn’t keep her fear out of it, but at the look of pain crossing Jackson’s face.
He seemed to go pale. “Emily, I know you’re upset,” he said, the hurt evident in his voice. “I don’t know why you think I’d want to see you or Joey hurt. Elias Manning is a friend. Why don’t you explain why you think I might be in league with a drug dealer?”
“The money,” she stated bluntly, tamping down her own hurt that he could betray her this way. “This place generates no income, but is a money pit. I know what those appliances cost, that therapy pool, all the new upgrades including the roof, and the sauna in your brand new sunroom. As a principal, you don’t make that kind of money. The Chef’s bribed people in your position before. You love this place, and you’d do anything to keep it. In some ways, I don’t blame you, but—”
Jackson stood, ran his hand through his hair, and did the last thing she expected him to do. He laughed. “Stop talking right now. The joke is on me. Man, I have lousy taste in women. The first woman I was interested in cared more for my money than me. The second seems to care more for my perceived lack of money than me!” He stood. “Stay here,” he ordered angrily before walking out of the room.
As if I could go anywhere. Both her wheelchair and crutches were out in the truck and the idea of bunny-hopping through the mud and water to safety didn’t make a lot of sense. Where could she go? She was a prisoner here. Cal knew she was here—
Jackson came back into the room and dropped an accordion file in her lap. “I’m going out to spend some time with Uncle Jack and cool down before I give into my baser instincts and shake some sense into you until your teeth rattle. Go ahead. Look through it and satisfy your curiosity about my financial situation, I’m a God damn millionaire. I’ll bring in your chair before I go, so you don’t feel trapped here. You can have Jack’s bed tonight. For the record, I would never do anything illegal to keep this place. It wasn’t the way I was raised. I thought you’d at least recognized that I had integrity if nothing else.” He walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Emily stared at the file on her lap, convinced she’d made a big mistake, probably even a bigger one than when she’d come to Braden alone. Lisa had implied Jackson was some kind of local hero, helping others out, but a millionaire? She couldn’t look through this file. She didn’t need to. She’d seen the truth and hurt in his eyes.
Jackson came back into the room and brought her chair close enough for her to reach, and opened it. “I really thought we were friends, but friends trust each other, and I guess we aren’t there yet. Help yourself to whatever you want.” He turned and walked away, leaving her in the house alone.
Tears of hurt and anger—tears she’d tried to stifle when she saw the last of her old life in ruins around her—started to fall.
She was an idiot. Jackson was a man of honor. She’d known it from the moment he’d come to her rescue that first night and now, in her paranoia, she’d ruined everything. She was the one who’d lied, who’d kept secrets. Dropping the folder unopened on the floor, she gripped the small wooden chest tightly and let the tears flow.
Jackson was wrong. The ashes in this box—the ashes of the child she would never hold—were important, but not more important than the respect of the man who’d just walked out that door.
* * * *
Hurt and angry, Jackson climbed the muddy path to the cemetery on the small hill at the back of the house, and sat on the bench in front of Amelia’s grave and Uncle Jack’s on the one side and the memorial marker to his father and mother on the other. He sat in the cool damp night, listening to the sound of owls hooting and night creatures scurrying, looking for food as well as shelter from their enemies.
A dog barked in the distance, and he looked over at the two small grave markers next to Uncle Jack’s. Rastus Too had died the same night his uncle had as if he couldn’t bear to carry on without his master. They always had a dog. The first Rastus had been part of his life from the day he’d learned he would be staying with Uncle Jack. They’d gone to the kennel in Waterloo and picked out the pup, the runt of the litter. The Border collie had been good at keeping the cows in line when they came up for milking and more than one tear had been shed into his coat by a boy missing his parents that first summer. When the dog had died, they’d gone back to the same breeder and come home with Rastus Too.
He had thought about getting himself another pup, but it wouldn’t be fair to leave the animal alone while he was at work. Maybe if he quit teaching and raised horses the way he wanted to, he would get a dog. He chortled. Wouldn’t Emily have a fit if he said he was quitting his job, too? By now, she’d looked through his portfolio and knew he had more money than brains. He should take her into town and dump her ass at the Worthington Arms, but he couldn’t. Fool that he was, he cared about her, and the man who’d ruined her apartment wasn’t playing games. He meant business.
“I don’t know how to fix this mess, Uncle Jack,” he admitted speaking aloud to the gravestone, knowing deep down there would be no answer, but wishing for all he was worth that his Uncle and his wisdom were there to guide him one last time.
“You know, Reverend Dixon was right when he says nothing good comes from money. I’ve tried to put all of mine to good use, but it doesn’t seem to help. I really like her. I know you would, too. She’s strong and feisty, but she lacks trust. She’s been hurt badly, betrayed by people she trusted. How do I fight that? Looking like her husband probably isn’t a point in my favor either. Now, she’s got it in her head I’m going to lose the farm unless I jump in bed with a dope dealer.”
Only silence echoed back in the little cemetery.
He chuckled. “When I say it out loud like this, I realize she isn’t any different than I am. I jump to conclusions all the time. Here, I wanted to impress her with the homestead and had all kinds of improvements made in a blink of an eye. No wonder she thinks what she does. I’ve been harping on the fact the community needs the money from her program when I could pay off everyone’s debts if I had a mind to. We both know I’ve done some behind the door horse trading to help people out without them knowing it. Well…she’s got the whole file. When I go back in, maybe instead of being angry, I’ll just explain it to her. That is if she’ll listen to me.”
The rain had started again, a fine mist forcing him back inside. He stopped at the barn and checked on the animals first, then got her crutches and the rest of her things from the truck and went back into the house.
Emily sat on the sofa where he’d left her, the file sat on the floor at her feet, and it looked as if she’d cried herself to sleep.
Feeling like an ass, he carried the crutches to Uncle Jack’s room, turned on the light by the bed and placed the crutches beside the bedside table. He went over to the dresser and took out one of his uncle’s pajama tops then put it on the bed. Opening her bag, he removed the wet clothes she’d
worn in the therapy tub as well as the skirt and top she’d worn earlier before changing into the warmer sweater and jeans. It was probably all the clothing she had, so he should at least make it wearable.
After putting it all in to wash, he went back to the living room where he left her. It was after nine and she had to be beat. “Em?” he said softly.
The sound of his voice startled her awake. “You came back.”
“Of course, I came back. I live here…remember? I’m sorry I got angry with you. It was my own fault. Like you, I’m a private person and have my own secrets. Did you look through the file?”
“No. I don’t need to. I’m sorry I ever suspected you’d do something like getting involved with the Chef. You’re a man of integrity, I know that. I’m a fool. I’m upset, and I’m not thinking straight. It’s too late to call tonight, but tomorrow I’ll contact Rick in Chicago and have him send someone to get me.”
“You don’t have to do that. You can stay here as long as you like.”
“Thank you, Jackson, but the Chef knows who I am, and anyone around me is in danger. Plus, I haven’t got any clothes, and without my leg…” Tears started down her cheeks as she spoke.
He moved over and picked her up, sitting on the couch with her in his lap. “You do have some clothes, and I’ve put them in to wash, so you’ll have clean stuff to put on in the morning. I wish I could do something about your leg, because I know it bothers you more than it bothers me, but we’ll be fine. I can take you into Waterloo for clothes in the morning. Now, how about I see one of those smiles of yours?”
Smiling weakly, she nodded. “Thank you. I’ve cried more on you in the last day than I’ve cried in years.”
His stomach rumbled.
She giggled at the sound. “I guess I should make myself useful. I know it’s late, but we should both eat. How about I make an omelet? You’ve got chickens, so you must have eggs.”
Unable to stop himself, he leaned forward and kissed her gently, briefly, the touch the mere flit of a butterfly’s wing across her mouth. “I do have eggs,” he said sitting her down in her wheelchair. Let’s go make something to eat.”
Secrets and Lies (Hearts Of Braden Book 4) Page 24