Anywhere She Runs

by Webb, Debra

  There was a fine line to be walked here. Wyatt had no reason to believe Swift was lying to him. If he overreacted, all three of the men sitting in front of him would understand that it was personal. This had to be by the book.

  “I should put you on administrative leave.”

  “Sheriff.” Swift’s eyes went wide. “I—”

  “But,” Wyatt said, cutting him off cold, “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. This time. Under two conditions.”

  The three deputies stared at him expectantly.

  “You will all,” Wyatt ordered, “treat Detective Cooper with the same respect you treat any of your colleagues. And,” he added before any one of them could speak up, “you will keep your ears open where Clay or his cronies are concerned. This could turn into a very bad situation very fast. My department will not look the other way for Clay Cooper, his father, or anyone else crossing the line in this jurisdiction. The only law in this county now is the one represented by the uniforms we wear.”

  “Yes, sir,” Guthrie and Cochran said simultaneously.

  Swift mumbled his agreement next, but the glaring pause negated the words.

  “I regret that you had to be called away from your families on Christmas Day,” Wyatt allowed. “But keep in perspective the fact that another woman is missing today. We have no evidence and no leads. One of our own, Detective Cooper, has been threatened by this same perp. It’s our job to protect Detective Cooper while stopping this bastard. And if we’re damned lucky, to bring his other two victims home alive.”

  Heads nodded in agreement.

  “Guthrie, you and Cochran are dismissed.”

  Swift’s eyes widened again as his comrades got the hell out of the office while the getting was good.

  When the door had closed, Wyatt stood, rounded his desk, and sat down next to his deputy. “Swift, I didn’t want to say this in front of the others. Out of respect for you.”

  The younger man swallowed with difficulty.

  “You’re right,” Wyatt said agreeably, “this is a free country. But Clay Cooper and the thugs he employs are trouble. Trouble that I will put an end to the first opportunity that arises.

  “The uniform you wear represents a certain moral code, Swift. It took a long time to get folks in this county to believe that again. I won’t have you or anyone else undoing that hard work. Whether you think this is a big deal or not, be warned, if you continue to fraternize with Clay Cooper’s type, there will not be a place in this department for you come review time. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go home, Deputy Swift, and consider whether you want to work for me or for the Cooper family.”

  “Merry Christmas, Sheriff,” Swift mumbled as he got to his feet.

  “Same to you.”

  The door closed behind the dumbass. The idea that Clay had gotten information by any means infuriated Wyatt. But he had far bigger problems than that little prick right now.

  Wyatt closed his eyes. Two missing women . . . no evidence.

  Though he had no clue what this bastard’s timeline was, Wyatt had a bad, bad feeling that time was running out . . .

  . . . for Addy.

  Chapter Eighteen

  4720 Miller Road, 5:00 P.M.

  Irene stared at the television screen, shock rippling along her nerve endings.

  Another woman was missing.

  Penny Arnold.

  The pictures of the two victims were plastered across the screen. Both young. Wives. Mothers.

  Blond.

  Dear God.

  In the statement to the press, the police had cautiously veered away from terms like “serial” and “murder.” Since no bodies had been recovered it was still officially a kidnapping case.

  If that poor Prescott woman had been murdered . . .

  Irene clasped her hands together and sent another fervent prayer heavenward.

  Too weak to hold the pose, her hands fell to her lap and her gaze shifted to the framed photograph of her sweet daughter on the table next to her.

  Adeline hadn’t been able to meet her for lunch today since she’d received word that another victim had gone missing. She’d promised to make it up to Irene tomorrow.

  Please, dear Lord, protect my daughter.

  The images of Cherry Prescott and Penny Arnold appeared on the television screen once more. Irene’s chest tightened as she studied each face. The nose and lips . . . the shape of the eyes. Blue eyes. She picked up the photo of her precious Addy and held it in the air so that it visually lined up with those on the screen.

  Tears brimmed, blurring her eyes. “Sweet Jesus.”

  Irene’s hand trembled. She hugged the photo to her chest. She had to do something . . . she couldn’t pretend any longer that this would just go away.

  Her hand still shaking, she reached for the phone. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she pressed the numbers. Her chest squeezed painfully yet somehow she summoned the necessary words. “I’d like to speak to him.”

  She moistened her lips, tried to take a breath. It wasn’t possible.

  “Irene?”

  A shudder rocked through her body.

  “Something else has happened,” she said with all the strength she possessed. Her lips quivered and she summoned her fleeing courage. “I’m coming over there. We have to talk, Cyrus. Something has to be done.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  4718 Miller Road, 6:30 P.M.

  Clay stamped up the steps and across the porch.

  He’d been summoned.

  “Fucking old bastard.” Who the hell did he think he was, still ordering Clay around? His daddy was on his way out of this world and not a minute too soon for Clay.

  The old bastard had gotten soft this last year. Fighting cancer had beaten him down.

  There had been a time when nobody fucked with Cyrus Cooper. His very name had instilled fear in this whole goddamned county. But now he was nothing but a shriveled-up old man in a wheelchair.

  If Clay was smart he’d just put the old bastard out of his misery and be done with it.

  But he had no desire to go to prison. Hell no.

  Clay grinned as he stood outside the door to his daddy’s house. Hell yeah, and he was too smart to end up the target of a DEA investigation like his stupid-ass brother—God rest his soul—had been. And he damned sure didn’t have no soft spots like his daddy.

  Wasn’t nothing ever going to own Clay that way.

  Uh-uh. No way in hell.

  He jerked the door open and stalked inside.

  “He’s waiting for you,” Everett announced, then gestured to the parlor.

  Clay just stared at the man like he was crazy or something. Of course his daddy was waiting for him. Where the hell was he going to go?

  No-fucking-where.

  Clay shoved the doors apart and stepped into the place where his father spent most all of his time when he wasn’t in bed. “You called?” He didn’t try to disguise the sarcasm in his tone. Soon, very soon, this shit would be over, and Clay couldn’t wait.

  The old man looked closer to death every day.

  Thank fucking God.

  “Sit.”

  Clay banged his chest. “Do I look like a dog to you, old man?” What the hell? Sit? Shit.

  “Clayton,” Cyrus boomed, “sit down.”

  Fuck. Clay rolled his eyes and collapsed in the closest chair. “What?”

  “Have you been harassing Addy?” He glared at Clay as if that look alone would pull the truth out of his son. “I received a call suggesting you had just a little while ago.”

  “Depends upon your definition of ‘harassing.’ ” Clay stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles. He didn’t miss his daddy’s glance at his healthy legs. Yeah, look, old man. You’re a cripple and I ain’t.

  Cyrus smiled then. “You are quite the cocky fellow, aren’t you, son?”

  “Learned it from the best.” Clay grinned. “You and my brother.”

  “And
just look what it got your brother.”

  Fury shot through Clay. “It was that bitch’s fault.” He wanted her dead so bad he could taste it. She didn’t deserve to be breathing when his brother lay under the cold ground in that goddamned cemetery.

  Cyrus squared his shoulders, the only part of him that still worked worth a damn. “You will leave her alone. If you or any of your friends touch her, you will regret it for many years to come.”

  Yeah, yeah. The old fucker never failed to remind Clay that he still held the purse strings. “That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about,” Clay assured him. “I’m not going to lay a hand on her. None of my friends will, either. I’ll see to that personally.”

  “What about her tires?” Cyrus’s gaze narrowed. “You told me you had nothing to do with that.”

  Clay shrugged. “I didn’t. I ain’t touching her or her shit.”

  His daddy studied him a long minute. He knew Clay was lying. But surprisingly, he let it go. “You are my only flesh and blood.” He heaved a big breath. “You’re all I have. But I will not watch you go down that same path your brother took.”

  “You mean the path you provided him the map for?”

  Dead silence filled the air.

  Clay was pretty sure he’d said too much. The old man was really pissed now. Clay could see it in his eyes. Shit. That was not good.

  “Yes,” Cyrus admitted.

  The sadness that suddenly overwhelmed the old man’s face was almost enough to make Clay regret his smartass remark. Almost.

  “I was a different man then,” Cyrus offered.

  What the fuck? What was this? Confessional time?

  “I lost my oldest son and my only brother within the space of one year. That kind of loss changes a man.”

  Funny, Clay mused, he never mentioned missing his wife—the mother of his two sons. She’d died first, a couple years before Gage.

  But Clay didn’t have to ask why. He knew. His daddy had married the wrong girl.

  Hell, probably wasn’t the cancer killing him. It was more likely the regret.

  A man just never got over some things. Apparently coveting was one of them.

  “I don’t want to lose you, too, Clayton,” his daddy said, emotion shining in his eyes. “Whatever it is you’re doing, just stop. That’s all I’m asking.”

  This was too fucking weird, but he couldn’t deny the fact that the old man’s words had gotten to him on some level. He wasn’t completely heartless. Clay sat up, straightened his jacket. “You got nothing to worry about, Daddy. I told you, I’m not going to touch Addy. And just because it’s what you want, I’ll make absolutely certain that none of my buddies do, either.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Cyrus said wearily.

  Clay got up, walked over to his pitiful old man, and gave him a little hug. It was the least he could do. “Merry Christmas.”

  If Clay was real lucky, this would be the last time he’d ever have to say that shit again.

  By this time next year, he’d be planting that old bastard next to Gage.

  And then Clay would show folks around here that Cooper law was still the only one that mattered.

  7:30 P.M.

  Clay barreled down the gravel drive, headed back to town. He had plans.

  “Fuck that old man!”

  That old bitch, he thought, glancing west toward where her farm sat beyond his daddy’s, was whispering shit in his daddy’s ears. Clay knew exactly where his daddy was getting his information. All Clay could say was that she’d better watch what she said and did or she’d find her self asleep one night with the house burning down around her. She and her daughter were just alike. So fucking self-righteous. Thought they were a cut above Clay and his daddy.

  Clay grunted a laugh. It would be nice as hell to have both those bitches out of the way.

  “No need to be greedy, Clayton, old boy.” He grinned. One out of the way would be close enough.

  Very soon he would have complete control. All the money, the land. And the whole county would look up to him then. He would have the power.

  Wouldn’t nobody dare to tell him what to do. Or even look at him the wrong way.

  Hell no.

  He turned onto the main road and headed to Pascagoula. The boys were waiting for him. They were going to party the night away. All the beer and pussy they could handle. That was his Christmas present to his friends.

  “Hell yeah!” He smirked. Lots of beer and pussy.

  Blue lights flickered in his rearview mirror.

  “Fuck.” He glanced down at the speedometer. Hell, he wasn’t even speeding. Well, maybe a little.

  Didn’t these bastards know it was Christmas? Annoyed as hell, he braked and pulled over to the side of the road. Depending on who it was, he could probably talk his way out of whatever had made them pull him over.

  Stupid shit cops.

  He glanced in his side mirror to get a look at who the cop was as he walked up to Clay’s door. The headlights from the official vehicle glowed around him like a spotlight.

  Henderson? What the hell? Clay powered the window down. “I wasn’t speeding, Sheriff.”

  Henderson stared at him like he was ready to rip his head off and piss down his throat. “Get out of the truck, Clay.”

  “What?” This was crazy! “I wasn’t speeding. I wasn’t doing nothing.”

  “Get out,” Henderson repeated.

  Clay opened the door and slid out of the seat. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What now, Sheriff?”

  “Get in the SUV.” Henderson jerked his head toward his vehicle.

  Clay held up his hands and waved them back and forth. “You ain’t taking me nowhere until you tell me what the hell is going on.” No way this guy had figured anything out. Even if he had . . . it had nothing to do with Clay.

  “We’re going to talk,” Henderson explained. “And then you can get back in your piece-of-shit truck and drive away.”

  Clay swore under his breath. Called him every kind of cocksucker known to man. “Whatever you say, Sheriff.” He walked back to the SUV but hesitated before climbing in. “Front seat or back?”

  “Front.”

  Clay swung into the seat and closed the door.

  Sheriff Henderson did the same. He didn’t turn on the interior light. In fact, he’d turned the inside lights off completely. No glow from the dash at all. No prob. That big fat moon provided some light, which was good. Clay had no desire to sit here in the dark with some cop. Especially not dickhead Wyatt Henderson.

  “I want you to think very carefully before you answer my question, Clay.”

  More questions. Fucking great. “Do you need to read me my rights?”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I need a lawyer?”

  Henderson turned his face toward him. “Have you done anything that might require the services of an attorney?”

  Clay shook his head. “Don’t think so.” Not that he’d gotten caught doing anyway.

  Henderson rested his arm along the back of the seat. “Here’s the problem, Clay. There are some things going on that concern me.”

  “What things?” Clay stared at the back of his truck. He’d already be in town with his friends if this shithead hadn’t stopped him.

  When Henderson didn’t answer, he opened his mouth to ask again but his head suddenly rammed into the dash. “What the fuck?” Pain exploded in his forehead. “Jesus Christ!” He clutched at his face and turned to Henderson. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  The business end of Henderson’s weapon was staring Clay right in the eyes. Fear charged into his throat, ensuring nothing witty came out of his mouth.

  “Now you listen to me, you piece of shit,” Henderson growled. “You go near her or her things again and I will see that you end up facedown in the bayou.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Clay rubbed his forehead. “This is fucking police brutality!”

  Henderson shook his hea
d. “No. You’re wrong.” He jammed the muzzle into Clay’s temple, pinning his head between the gun and window of his door. “This is police brutality.”

  “You can’t do this shit!” Clay hated like hell that he’d squealed the words. But hell, he was ’bout ready to piss his pants. This motherfucker had gone crazy.

  The muzzle bored more deeply into Clay’s skull. “Who broke into her room at the Shady Oaks?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” No way was he telling Henderson shit.

  “That may be,” the sheriff allowed, “but just in case, I want to leave you with something to think about.”

  Clay blinked. Prayed he wasn’t about to get shot. Shit. He knew how cops could be. They could make it look like it was his fault.

  The pressure suddenly eased on his skull.

  Halle-fucking-lujah.

  Clay relaxed. Shit.

  The gun rammed between his legs. The muzzle shoved hard against his balls. All the air rushed out of his lungs. The whimper that echoed in the silence was his.

  “Don’t shoot!” Clay’s balls tried to draw into his belly. His entire body shuddered. “I swear I didn’t do nothing. I swear!”

  “I’m going to take your word for that,” Henderson said quietly. He increased the pressure of the muzzle. Clay wailed like a goddamned girl. “But,” Henderson went on, “if you or any of your thug friends go anywhere near her, I will find you and then I’ll blow your puny balls clean off. Do you understand me?”

  Clay nodded, his head bobbing frantically. “Whatever you say, Sheriff. I swear to God, I won’t go near her.”

  “And your friends?” The gun threatened to bust right through his scrotum.

  “They won’t go near her, either.”

  “Good.”

  Henderson drew his weapon back. Clay sucked in a shaky breath. His face was wet. Fuck! Badasses didn’t cry like goddamned girls!

  “Now get out,” Henderson ordered.

  Body trembling, Clay snatched at the door, finally got it open. His feet hit the ground and his knees buckled. He’d barely gotten back to his feet and shoved the door closed when Henderson roared away.