Take Me Back (Paradise, Idaho Book 4)

by Rosalind James

“In what places?”

  Hallie had put a hand to her head and laughed. “Guys. Stop. And Cole—that’s very sweet, but I don’t think your mom would be excited about my putting you in danger.”

  “Well, no,” Vicki had answered. “But if I’m there, too, somebody might think twice about trying anything else. Not to mention Cletus. I’m guessing Cletus came as an unpleasant surprise the other night. Besides, I’m home during the day a lot, and I can drive Cole to school. I can drive you, too, Hallie, until you’re able to do it yourself again.”

  “I couldn’t . . .” Hallie had had to swallow past the lump in her throat. “I couldn’t ask you. Not in that house.”

  “Oh,” Vicki had said, “I think you could. The worst parts are gone. Somebody did both of us a favor, didn’t they?” She’d looked at Hallie, and Hallie had known exactly what she was thinking. Sayonara, bedroom. “Anyway, it’s only for three months.”

  “There’ll be construction going on.” Hallie had made a last-ditch effort despite her gratitude.

  “And somebody will need to supervise that,” Vicki had said. “You never know what kinds of shortcuts those guys will try to pull.”

  “It’s Kevin Yost,” Jim had said.

  “And Kevin Yost used to run up his bar tab and ‘forget’ to pay it,” Vicki had answered. “Don’t tell me about Kevin Yost.”

  Hallie had had to laugh. “All right. That would be wonderful. That would be great. And I’d back you against Kevin any day, Vicki. Glad to have you on my side.”

  So now, she was back in her house. And the next day, she called Bob Jenkins to tell him she was.

  “My three days for December are used up,” she said, “and here I still am, with three roommates. Hopefully whoever’s trying to scare me off will get the message.” Even if it’s you.

  “Well,” he said, “I’m real glad to hear that. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more accommodating about your staying there, but the law’s the law, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Yes. I’m getting a second opinion on that. So you know. I wouldn’t want you to be surprised.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I’m going to see Sage Christiansen down in Union City next week, to see if she thinks we can challenge it in court.”

  Bob sighed. “Well, it’s your money, if you want to waste it. Sage is—well, she’s eager. But she can have a chip on her shoulder.”

  “Perfect. Because so do I.”

  After that, she hung up and called her uncle and filled him in.

  “I’ve sure been thinking about you,” he said when she finished. “Glad to know you’ll have company over there in the meantime. That was mighty worrisome. The sooner they figure out who’s behind all this, the better. I don’t know what the sheriff’s department is doing, though, messing around the way they are. Do you know they were over here asking us about what we were doing that night? Like I’d hurt my own niece, the only family I’ve got left, just to get a little more money.”

  “You’ve got Cole, too,” Hallie said.

  “You’re right. I keep forgetting. That’s going to take a while to sink in. So you doing all right?”

  “I am.” Which was when she told him about her second opinion. Whoever was doing this, she wanted to telegraph the message loud and clear: Be satisfied with what you’re getting, because you aren’t getting mine.

  “Well,” Dale said slowly, “asking you to stay in that house when you’ve been attacked out there—I have to agree, that’s too much. Your dad wouldn’t have wanted that. But going to court? Are you sure you want to rock the boat like that? Could be risky.”

  “Yes,” Hallie said. “Dead sure.”

  STEPS ONE TO THREE

  It had started out so simply, the killer thought. So—cleanly. Just a matter of inaction when Henry had choked. And, all right, a slip instead of the Heimlich. A slip, that was all. An accident.

  Which was what had happened with Hallie, too. An accident. If only the dog hadn’t barked so much, it would have ended up as a small fire, easily extinguished, covered by insurance, and hardly any harm done. Which is what it had been. The smoke detectors would have woken Hallie up eventually, and she’d have called 911, gotten out of the house, and waited for the fire department like anybody would have expected her to do.

  Even with the dog barking—it had still been an accident. She should have run down the driveway, away from the flames. Instead, she’d turned back toward the house. Toward the figure in the shadows. After that, it had been reflexive. A swing of an arm, warding her off. And then—keeping her quiet, that was all. Keeping her from seeing. She hadn’t been hurt, not really. A bump on the head, that was all.

  And what had happened since? A whole hornet’s nest worth of trouble, that was what.

  The question was—what to do now? Now that Hallie was going to another attorney, and maybe going to court. Now that she had Vicki and Cole—and the dog—out there at the house with her. She wasn’t giving up. She was doubling down.

  And why? Because it had all been an accident. Because it had all been too soft. Because she knew that nobody was really trying to kill her, or even to hurt her.

  You couldn’t scare somebody who knew you wouldn’t follow through. You couldn’t win the pot if your opponent knew you were bluffing.

  So what was the answer?

  Stop bluffing.

  The first step on that journey was the hardest, oddly enough: calling down to Sage Christiansen’s office. The secretary couldn’t possibly know Hallie’s voice, but the call was nerve-wracking all the same.

  “This is Hallie Cavanaugh.” A pause to cough. “I can’t remember when I made my appointment for next week. I haven’t been feeling well. Can you remind me?”

  “Next Monday,” the secretary said helpfully. “December eighth.”

  “Thank you.” Another cough. “See you then.”

  Hanging up, wiping the sweat off nervous hands. Right. Step two, then. Which was still nonviolent. As was step three. Well, not directly violent. Not unless it was absolutely necessary. At some point, Hallie had to believe it wasn’t worth it. Her courage would crumble.

  A long wait for Sunday evening and another stint with the Ambien. In mashed potatoes this time, and it worked just as well as it had before. And at eleven o’clock, the killer drove down the grade to Union City.

  A rental car would have been better, but podunk Paradise didn’t have any rental car places. But never mind. After this, there would be all the money in the world to go any place in the world. To go to the one that was best of all. It was a thought to firm the resolve and stiffen the spine.

  The parking lot was behind the building, but the killer already knew that. Beyond the sign that read Atkinson, Buchanan, and Christiansen, Attorneys at Law.

  In a commercial district. No houses. No neighbors. All quiet, near midnight on a frosty winter Sunday night.

  The killer parked in the lot, popped the trunk, and pulled out the air rifle purchased from North Idaho Sports on a frantically busy Saturday, after a long wait at the firearms counter while wives bought Christmas presents for their hunter hubbies, clutching newspaper ads circled with black pen. In other words, a purchase the bored clerk couldn’t possibly remember.

  There were two lights in the parking lot, hanging low. Nothing you had to be a hunter to hit.

  You have all the time in the world. Nice and easy.

  The first shot went wild, the report sounding shockingly loud in the silent, frozen air, and the killer flinched and almost dropped the gun.

  It’s just an air rifle. Calm down. It isn’t that loud. There’s nobody here.

  Aiming again, taking a deep breath and holding it, and pulling the trigger.

  A tinkle of glass, and the light had gone dark.

  Success.

  On to the second one. One shot. One hit. All dark.

  Yes.

  Henry had always been so smug about his hunting prowess. He always got the most. He always got the best.

/>   Who’s winning now, Henry? the killer asked silently as the air rifle went into the trunk, destined for the ShopCo dumpster. You sat there and laughed at me. You said you’d tell. You said you’d take me down just for the fun of it. But who died that night? And who’s winning now?

  The surge of excitement, the delicious power—they made the killer’s hands shake on the wheel. Everything up to now felt like small potatoes, even the fire. This had been real. Shots fired. That was real.

  This is yours. Take it.

  Down the driveway and nobody coming. No alarms. No shouts. No sirens.

  Step two.

  Done.

  Step three, now . . . Step three.

  Step three was everything the other steps hadn’t been. Public. Risky. And potentially deadly.

  “Your appointment is on Monday at four fifteen,” the secretary had said. “We’ll see you then.” That was where the idea had come from.

  At four fifteen, it would be dusk. At four thirty, it would be full dark, and now the lights in the parking lot were out.

  Hallie’s appointment would take at least half an hour, and all the job required was five minutes. Practice made perfect, and the killer had practiced on a sheet of metal all week, every time the house—and the garage—had been empty. Which hadn’t been often enough.

  After this, though—after this, the sky would be the limit. Divorce, even. Divorce wouldn’t matter if you had this much money coming in. Community property only applied to money the other person—and the IRS—knew about.

  “Independently wealthy.” The killer said the words aloud, relishing them, then pulled to a stop a cautious half block from the law building’s driveway. A grab for a small duffel, out of the car, and walking. Not hurrying. Wearing two sweatshirts again, another parka, another pair of baggy pants, and another pair of too-large shoes. Thank God for thrift stores.

  Up the driveway again, too, but on foot this time, skirting the fence at the far edge of the driveway, the camo parka and green cargo pants blending perfectly into the shadows.

  Two cars in the lot. The attorney’s, presumably, a neat, older-model Lexus, and Hallie’s, a piece-of-junk Ford Focus with one very interesting feature on its undercarriage, noticed during the stealthy placement of a GPS device.

  Rust.

  She’d parked in the outermost spot in the lot, nearest the driveway. Which was perfect. That meant doing it on the passenger’s side, because that was the side that was hidden from view. Maybe that was better anyway. You wouldn’t want it to happen too fast. Not until she was up the hill.

  The killer crouched between the car and the back wall and pulled a headlamp from the duffel. The riskiest part, but necessary. The lamp was switched to the red setting, which was the subtlest possible, especially on a head that was under the car before you switched it on, with the cordless drill in hand. And five quick holes, punched one after the other into the rear floorboards, where they’d be hidden by the mat.

  Would it work? Maybe. Downhill would have been best. Uphill was better than nothing.

  Even if didn’t work today as well as it might—it would make her sick. And even if somebody found the holes, eventually . . . it would make Hallie think. It would make her leave.

  Or else the killer would go to step four.

  UP THE GRADE

  “So that should do it,” Hallie’s brand-new attorney, Sage Christiansen, told her. “I’ll request an emergency hearing and see if we can get in there in the next week or so to revisit the terms of the will.”

  “Do you think it’ll work?” Hallie asked.

  “Well, it’s up to the judge, so you never know, but with the concussion and everything? I think we’ve got a great case.” Sage reminded Hallie of Anthea. Brisk, no-nonsense, and frighteningly competent. It must be an Idaho-woman-lawyer thing. “I’d say if somebody tries to burn you out of the house and hits you in the head, you could call that an emergency, and reasonable grounds to contest Bob’s interpretation.”

  “Well, they didn’t try to burn me out, exactly,” Hallie said. “It was a pretty small fire, in the end.”

  “Now you’re spoiling my story,” Sage said, and Hallie laughed.

  Sage stood up. “I’ll walk you out. And I’ll call you when I know anything.”

  When she held the back door open, though, she frowned. “Huh. That’s weird. Something must be funky with the lights. Can you see your way to your car?”

  “No problem.” It was bitterly cold, but the stars were out. “I’m fine.”

  “Right, then. See you.” Sage went back inside, and Hallie headed for the car, climbed inside, and cranked up the heater first thing. She had to sit a minute while the defrosters worked, but that was all right.

  Her phone rang, and she pulled it from her purse. Jim. That was all right, too.

  Jim was swearing. To himself, because Mac was there.

  They’d been at the orthodontist in Union City all afternoon, getting Mac’s brand-new braces put on. Jim was out five grand, which put that new truck even further into his future, but that was the parenting deal for you.

  Unfortunately, in the face of Mac’s nervousness, he hadn’t noticed that she’d shut her seatbelt in the door of the truck, leaving the dome light on.

  Well, it had been on. Now, it was off, and his battery was stone-cold dead. And his daughter was just stone cold, with a mouth that was already starting to hurt and that would be hurting more in a half hour.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” she said for the fifth time, the words coming out mumbled around the alien hardware as she tried not to shiver.

  “No problem, partner,” he said. “I’ll call for a jump. But hang on a second.” He pulled out his phone.

  It had upset him more than he’d like to admit that Hallie had refused to take the afternoon off so he could have driven her down here and taken her to her lawyer’s appointment.

  “I’m fine,” she’d said. “I’ve been driving again all weekend. All I have left is a mild headache. I was gone all last week, and the kids have finals coming up. I can do it, and I’m going to.”

  “If you don’t want me to take you, for some reason,” he’d said, “ask my mom.”

  “She’s got a shift. I’m fine, Jim. I appreciate that you feel protective of me, and I get that this has to do with Maya. I know that’s triggering things for you, but as we’ve discussed, I’m not Maya. I’m not sick. I had a knock on the head, but I’m perfectly healthy, and now I’m much better. And most of all—I can’t see myself as some weak flower who needs to rely on a man. That’s what being here has been all about—me standing on my own feet and being strong, here in this town where my dad made me feel so weak. I made this appointment so I could start taking my life back, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  Jim guessed he got it, but he didn’t like it. Just like Maya, Hallie was pushing back hard against his protectiveness. Damn it. Didn’t she see that it was just . . . just love?

  No. Not just like Maya. He had to stop thinking that, even when he was right, or it was going to slip out and Hallie was going to decide again that all he wanted was a substitute.

  Anyway, Hallie wasn’t Maya, and she was most definitely feeling better. She’d had her stitches out on Friday and had only a thin red scar and some fading yellow bruising to show for her troubles. And she had all her redhead stubbornness back, too. Unfortunately.

  Now, though, he was grateful she’d driven, if only he could catch her. He dialed, and she picked up.

  “Hey,” she said. “And before you ask—Sage is awesome, and she thinks we’ve got a shot. Much as I enjoy my new roommates.”

  “That’s great, baby. But—hey, are you driving yet?”

  “Nope. Just got in the car. How’s Mac?”

  “Fine, but my truck’s got a dead battery.”

  “Oh, no. Well, I’m still in town. Can I give you a jump?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s good and dead, and your car’s tiny to jump this monster. Besides, I wouldn’t
put a lot of faith in your battery itself. I’ll wait for the truck. But could you swing by here and get Mac, take her home? If you were OK doing the drive down,” he added. “If not, come by here, keep her warm in your car while I wait for the truck, and then I can drive you all home and come back with you for your car another day. That’s even better.”

  “I don’t need you to drive me home,” she said. “I’m fine. And of course I’ll come get her. Coming right now.”

  Waiting, the killer found, had been one more nerve-wracking ordeal in a whole series of them. Hallie hadn’t come out of the driveway until after five o’clock.

  After that, she went the wrong way. Through town.

  The killer couldn’t risk losing her, had to stay right behind her, and was sweating again, but she never noticed. At least, she kept driving until she reached another parking lot. A professional building, doctors and dentists.

  The killer released an unsteady breath, pulled to the curb, and waited. Some kind of specialist appointment for the head knock, maybe. It was just a matter of waiting.

  The killer almost missed her, because she came down the driveway again less than five minutes later. The streetlight—not shot out here—showed somebody else in her car. Somebody short.

  Following her again, then, back through all those same red lights, all of which should help the carbon monoxide build up. Sitting in traffic with the odorless gas filtering in through the floorboards, from everybody else’s car, not just hers. And not just cars. Semis, once they were on the highway, hitting those last few red lights before the grade.

  The killer dropped back now. He didn’t need to follow her so closely. He knew where she was going.

  His heart was hammering a mile a minute, and he had to turn the heat down, he was sweating so badly.

  He shouldn’t be following her. He should be far away for this part. But he had to see if it would work. If it didn’t . . . he needed to do something else. He needed to act. He’d come too far already, and he needed to go so much farther. And with Hallie out of the picture, the spotlight off, and everything settled down, he’d be able to. He could take as many trips as he wanted to that place he only got to go once a year now. Australia, for the deep-sea fishing.