She hung up the phone and tucked the paper into her daily organizer. Her thoughts waffled between believing John was completely up front with her, and worrying that she was in over her head with a man who might have tried to kill his wife. Unfortunately, answers would have to wait until later.
John arrived a half hour later, a frown on his face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I had a message on my machine at the Tampa house to call a Pasco County Sheriff’s Office detective.” He perched on a barstool and grabbed her cordless phone.
Jenna walked into the kitchen and washed the coffee mugs from that morning. “What do you think it’s about?” Her heart raced. Instinct told her it was about the bombing, but John appeared totally unaware anything was wrong.
“I can’t think of what it would be, unless something’s happened to Mitch.” He dialed the phone. “I mean, legally, I am still her husband, even though she’s filing for divorce.”
He paused when someone answered the phone. “Yes, ma’am. Detective Caster left a message for me to call him? Thank you.”
He was put on hold for a moment, and took the opportunity to put the phone on speaker mode.
A man came on the line. “Sam Caster.”
“Hello? This is John Tyne. You left a message on my machine.”
“Yes sir. I’m calling about your wife, Michelle Jackson.”
“What happened? Is she okay?”
“She’s extremely lucky. Someone blew up her vehicle yesterday.”
Jenna watched his face. He seemed to be genuinely shocked.
“That’s terrible! Is she okay?”
“Bumps and bruises, scrapes, nothing serious.”
“That’s a relief. Who did it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Where were you yesterday?”
Disbelief registered on his face. “Where was I? Well, I was in Orlando yesterday. Then I started driving back to Tampa last night and my car died at the Lakeland rest stop on I-4. I had it towed back to Orlando.”
With horrifying clarity, Jenna realized she was John’s alibi.
“I thought you lived in Tampa,” the detective said. “Why would you have your car towed to Orlando?”
“Actually, I’ve got a condo here, where I spend most of my time. And my girlfriend lives here.” He glanced at Jenna and winked. Somehow, the action disturbed her.
“Ah, I see,” Caster said. “Do you have any witnesses who will testify to you being in Orlando?”
“Well, I spent the day with Jenna, and she’s right here. I’m calling you from her apartment. I spent the night here.”
“And her full name is?”
“Jenna Stephens.” He spelled it for the detective as well as gave him her address and phone numbers.
“Okay, thank you. I’m going to need both of you to come in and give a formal statement. As soon as possible.”
John looked at Jenna and shrugged. “Tomorrow?” he silently mouthed. She nodded. “Can we come in tomorrow? We’d made plans for today.”
They heard papers rustling on the other end of the line. “Eleven o’clock. Sorry to bring you in on a weekend, but I need to get your statement.” He gave directions to the New Port Richey Sheriff’s office. “Oh, and I need you to bring your towing receipts and any other paperwork that will show where you were. I’ll need to talk to the tow truck driver, too.” The detective said good-bye with little fanfare. John ended the call.
“That’s horrible!” Jenna exclaimed, hoping she sounded appropriately surprised. “Why would someone want to do something like that?”
John shook his head. “I wonder if it had something to do with that boat she found.”
* * * *
They went to the car show as planned. It was difficult for Jenna to keep her mind off Mitch and the bombing. What if John was behind it? What if he led a completely different life than the one he portrayed to her?
“What’s wrong?” John stared at her from across the table. They had stopped at a little sidewalk cafe for lunch.
She forced a weak smile. “Nothing, I’m sorry. I’ve got a headache coming on.”
“You want to go home?”
Jenna shook her head. “No, I’m okay. I’ve got aspirin in my purse. When the waiter brings us our drinks, I’ll take some.”
The conversation remained light during the meal. They finished their tour of the car show, Jenna doing her best to pay attention to John. He took her out to dinner, and then home.
“Look, if you want to, why don’t you go to bed?” he asked. “I’ve got some work I need to do. I’ll just go over to my place. It’ll take us a couple of hours to get over to New Port Richey tomorrow, so I’ll pick you up here at seven, we’ll grab a quick bite on the road, and be there with plenty of time to spare. Sound good?”
She nodded. “Okay. I appreciate it.”
“No problem.” He gathered up his things and kissed her good-bye before leaving.
* * * *
Through the window, Jenna watched John pull out of the parking lot. Once she was sure he’d left, she went to her desk. She’d locked her cell in it before leaving that morning. Scrolling through the missed call log, she was disappointed to find no return call from Mitch. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Mitch might not be at home or had not had a chance to check her messages.
But now that she had started the quest for more information, Jenna was going to see it through to its conclusion.
* * * *
John felt the tension building inside him all day long, ever since the call to Sam Caster. The need had returned with a vengeance. Orlando was prime hunting ground for him, full of transients, vacationers, and, of course, prostitutes.
He did go back to his condo, but only long enough to take a quick shower, change his clothes, and drop off his things. He preferred traveling light on his hunting trips.
Chapter Twenty-Five
John rotated his haunts the same way he rotated his cities. International Drive was extremely promising for finding suitable prey. But he journeyed north instead to Church Street, where he parked in one of the city lots under I-4. Passing Church Street Station, he walked several blocks farther to a club he’d heard about a few months earlier. At the front door he paid the cover charge and walked inside the loud, dimly lit bar.
He held no appreciation for the tastefully decorated club, with its ornate brass and oak bar, engraved mirrors, and elegant oak paneling. He ordered a beer and went to a table in the far corner, allowing him a good view of the entire room. Scanning the patrons, he saw no prospects. Several attractive single women, but the signals they sent weren’t the ones he sought. He wanted someone vulnerable, reachable.
The women at the bar he could have taken home and had sex with, if his need hadn’t been so great. But for the hunt he needed prey, and these women were many things, but not prey.
As he nursed his second beer, a different waitress walked up to check on him. She was young, maybe in her late twenties, with shoulder-length light auburn hair. The faint flowering of a bruise high up on her right cheek had barely been concealed by makeup.
“Can I get you another drink?” Her green eyes skipped everywhere but his face. Her voice sounded clear, but timid.
The image of a gun-shy doe came to mind.
He put on a kind, friendly smile and looked directly into her eyes. “I think I’ve had enough to drink for the evening. What do you have in the way of food?”
He knew. He’d looked over the menu and practically memorized it. The food was typical sports bar fare, but they even offered boiled peanuts, an unusual item in a bar. He took that as an omen and listened to her, as if enraptured, waiting until she finished to make his choice.
“I’ll take a cheeseburger, please. Rare. With an order of fries and a Diet Coke.”
She took his order and practically scurried back to the bar.
This was interesting. Dangerous, but interesting. As a r
ule, he never selected employees because their absence was generally quickly detected. It also increased the risk of someone spotting him. But this girl was the one. Her every action spoke victim as clearly as the bruise on her face branded her one.
Under different circumstances, he would gladly teach the man who beat her a lesson. But not now, when the need burned brightly inside him. There was never an excuse for such brutality. Tactics of brute force were for the weak of mind and skill. A man who beat women had to prove his superiority with his fists. John, secure with his manhood, never felt the urge to do that. He never viewed himself in the same class with batterers.
He was a hunter, his kills quick and clean.
He watched her work. Her name was Melody, and she jumped every time someone called her name to pick up an order. She brought his fresh drink. When she placed a coaster on his table, he reached out and gently took her hand, examining an ugly purple bruise on her right forearm. He looked up at her. This was the moment of truth.
“That must have been a bad accident. Your arm and your cheek.” Relentlessly, he stared directly into her eyes.
Melody’s face flushed bright red, but she made no attempt to pull away from him. She nodded, speechless.
He let the silence hang in the air between them for a long moment. Then, “Boyfriend or husband?”
She didn’t answer at first. He turned her hand over, palm up, and softly stroked it with his other hand. She cringed, but still did not pull away. He was wrong about her age. If she was twenty-one, it was a miracle.
Melody whispered, “Boyfriend.”
“Why are you with someone who would do this to you?” He never broke eye contact with Melody, and was amazed the young girl didn’t pull away. She still held the serving tray, forgotten, in her left hand. The abuse must have started a short time ago. It was still a strange, new, unpleasant thing to her that she wanted to end, not an accepted price of love.
“My parents hated him. They told me if I moved in with him, not to come back.”
“How long has he beat you?”
With this question her eyes left his and dropped to the table. “It’s the second time. The first time he promised he wouldn’t do it again. He promised this time, too,” she quickly added.
“How long have you been with him?” The more questions she answered, the more she amazed him.
“Three months,” she softly answered.
That was the key. She wanted out, wanted back to her parents, but saw no other choice right now.
Pride goeth before a fall.
He patted Melody’s hand and sat back, releasing her. “When do you get off work?”
Melody remembered the tray and placed his glass on the coaster in front of him with a shaky hand. “Eleven.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.” She stood there, apparently not wanting to move.
Right on the money.
He leaned forward again and took a sip of his drink. “You deserve better than this, Melody. You know that, don’t you?”
She silently nodded.
“Did you drive here tonight?”
She nodded again.
“I can help you, if you let me. He’ll never beat you again.”
Hesitant hope flashed in her eyes. She was naive and trusting. Desperation did that to a person.
John glanced at his watch. “I’ll meet you at the north entrance of Church Street Station at a quarter past eleven. I’ll wait five minutes.”
“Melody, order up!”
She turned to the kitchen window at the end of the bar and waved, then back to John. “Okay. I’ll be there.”
He winked at her, and she scurried away to collect her order, which, it turned out, was his. She brought it to him, flashed him a hesitant smile, and went back to work.
John watched her work. He noticed she would sometimes touch her right hand, as if to assure herself the earlier contact really happened. He finished his meal around ten o’clock and ordered one final thing before leaving.
A bag of boiled peanuts.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mitch parked under Ed’s house and exchanged brief greetings with the two deputies stationed there. She knew Sam Caster would give her hell for leaving the way she did, but it’d been worth it. She grabbed her duffel bag and locked the truck. Pete bounded downstairs, and she took a moment to pet him before slowly climbing the stairs. She still felt stiff and sore from the day before.
Ed held the door open for her, immediately taking her duffel and kissing her on the lips. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”
A delicious smell from the kitchen set her stomach growling. “Have you been busy?” She paused her trek to the kitchen when she spied Margarita’s big cage occupying a corner of the living room formerly reserved for a large, potted ficus tree. The macaw was bouncing up and down on top of it.
“Mommy-bird! Mommy-biiiirrrrd!”
Mitch turned to Ed, laughing. “What army did you get to help you move that thing?” The iron cage sat on rollers, but it was difficult for one person to lift and carry its bulky weight.
He smiled, proud of himself. “Ron helped me.” He frowned, worried. “I hope you don’t mind.”
She put her arms around his waist and kissed him. “No, I don’t mind at all. It’s a very sweet gesture. I’m sure Margarita appreciates it, too.”
At the sound of her name, the macaw climbed to the front of her cage, where she bobbed her head up and down and laughed.
Ed chuckled. “I’ll put dinner on the table. You go spend some quality time with your daughter.”
“I want to go through that stuff I got from the computer—”
“It’ll wait.” He grabbed her hands and brought them to his lips. He kissed them. “Right now, I want you to stop thinking about John Tyne and go play with your damn bird.” He smiled. “Then you can play with me. Or I’ll play with you. Or we can play with each other.”
Mitch giggled and went over to the cage, offering her arm to the bird. She climbed onto Mitch’s arm and immediately snuggled up on her shoulder against her neck. Mitch played with Margarita until Ed called her over to the table.
He served up a savory beef stroganoff with a corn casserole on the side. When they finished, he banished her to the living room with Pete and Margarita, refusing to let her help with the dishes.
“Oh. Three reporters called while you were gone,” he yelled out from the kitchen.
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head while loading the dishwasher. “You ought to see your answering machine at the house. When I was over there, it was maxed out. We had about thirty calls at the shop, too.”
“Sheesh.” Mitch stretched out on the sofa. “That’s crazy.”
Ed carried two bowls of flan into the living room and handed one to Mitch before sitting down on the end of the sofa. He pulled her feet in his lap. “You’re telling me. Even CNN’s picked up the story.”
Mitch groaned. “When it rains, it pours.”
“Oh, Sami and Matt called. They offered a place to stay, if you want it.”
Mitch shook her head and took a bite of the delicious homemade custard. “No. I’m not going to run.”
He frowned. “Yeah, that’s a pretty hard thing to do if you’re dead, sweetie.”
Mitch leveled her gaze at him. “He’s not stupid enough to try again. He’s already drawn too much attention to himself.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“No, I can’t, but I’m not going to run from him either. If I have to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, then he’s won just as sure as if that bomb had got me.”
* * * *
He sighed, knowing she was right and feeling helpless that he couldn’t protect her.
They watched TV for a little while, Mitch dozing off and on. Wanting her to get some rest, he let her sleep until the news came on. They quickly channel surfed between the network affiliates, watching the almost identic
al stories. When they ended, Ed patted Mitch on the leg.
“Ready to go to sleep, hon?”
She smiled. “I’m ready to go to bed, but I don’t know how much sleep we’ll get.”
He leaned over and kissed her on the lips, an ear-to-ear grin plastered to his face. “Oh, baby. That sounds like a winning idea if I ever heard one.”
They made slow, unhurried love, cherishing every moment of it. Later, their passion sated for the night, they cuddled in each other’s arms and talked.
“Mitch, I don’t want to push you or rush you in any way. But I’m going to tell you how I honestly feel. I love you, and I don’t ever want to lose you.”
She shivered with pleasure and snuggled closer to him. “I love you, too, Ed. And if you think I’m going anywhere, you’re sadly mistaken.”
She heard him sigh. He nibbled her ear. “I bet Susan wouldn’t be very happy right now.”
Mitch thought about her parents. “Mom’s spinning in her grave right now.” She sadly smiled. “Daddy’s probably grinning ear-to-ear, though.”
“Ray never was much for worrying about what the neighbors thought.”
Silence settled over them. Mitch listened to the sound of Ed’s breathing as it grew slow and steady. She thought he was asleep when he startled her by speaking.
“You know, I’ll never tease you about forgetting things again. I never thought being forgetful would ever save your life.”
That chilling thought brought goose bumps up on her skin. If she hadn’t forgot her purse…
Mitch burrowed deeper in Ed’s arms. “I know.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The night was breezy, tempering the stifling ferocity of the humid air. In the east, over the horizon, thunder rumbled, the last remnants of late-afternoon showers that split and spread and missed the Orlando area. John moved his car a block closer to Church Street Station, but still out of sight of their meeting spot. He knew of a small motel on State Road 50, close to Mascotte. Tonight would be the happiest night of her life.
Dalton, Tymber - Red Tide (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 18