Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel

by Bradley, Patricia

  He needed to work on that smile. “Well, thank—”

  A loud crash from the second floor apartment interrupted him. He glanced toward the sound as Daisy erupted into another barking frenzy. Seconds later the door on the second floor opened, and a bundle of clothes flew out onto the top of the stairs. A pint-sized woman in her twenties emerged next. She stood just outside the door, her hands planted on her hips.

  “That’s it, Scott. Get your things and get out of here!”

  Nick’s brother stumbled against the door frame. “C’mon, Dana, let me sleep here tonight.”

  “Do you want me to call the police? I told you not to come back here drunk. Go call your high-and-mighty lawyer and get some money to stay somewhere else.”

  “But—”

  “Out!”

  “I gotta sit down.” Scott slid down the wall and propped his head in his hands.

  The old woman had stepped out in the hallway with the wiggly dog in her arm, and Nick shot her a quizzical look.

  Smoothing back copper-red hair that had an inch of white roots, she winked at him. “Didn’t say he wasn’t staying here. You the lawyer?”

  Nick grinned. “Nope.” He started for the stairs.

  “You!”

  He raised his head. Dana had her fiery gaze fixed on him. Carrot-colored hair curled in every direction on her head.

  “Who are you and what’re you doing here?”

  “I’m his brother. Nick Sinclair.” He nodded toward Scott, who stared at him, then closed his eyes and slid a little farther down the wall. “I’ve been looking for him.”

  Recognition came into her eyes. “The one he called the other night?”

  Nick nodded. “I found a number on my caller ID, but no one answers. I googled it and got this address.”

  “Phone’s been out two days.” Dana jerked her head toward Scott. “Are you taking him with you? ’Cause he’s not staying here.”

  Nick climbed to the top of the stairs. “I’ll take him. Could you get his clothes together for me?”

  She wiped her hands on her blue scrubs. “Might be better to just call the police. He’s a lot of trouble when he’s like this.”

  For the first time, he noticed a hospital ID badge identifying Dana Rogers as a nurse’s assistant. “You sound like you’ve had experience.”

  Dana’s expression softened. “Yeah, well, he was different when I first met him. Wasn’t drinking like this. He’s really sweet when he’s sober, a different person, really. Somebody needs to get him help, get him dried out . . . or something.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Nick bent over his brother. Soured bourbon almost knocked him down. “Hey, wake up, Scott. We have to go.”

  “Hey, you came and got me.” Scott looked up at Dana. “Didn’t I tell you he’d help me?”

  “Come on, buddy, help me out here.” Nick slid his hand under Scott’s arm. “Come on, push yourself up.”

  Scott tried to shake him off. “Don’t wanna move right now.”

  Nick persisted, and finally Scott heaved himself up. “Put your arm around my shoulders so I can get you down the stairs.”

  Between dragging and carrying, he got Scott down the steps and to his car. Dana followed with Scott’s clothes. After Nick got his brother in the front seat, he took them. “Thanks.”

  “Maybe he’ll sleep it off—he usually does.” She hesitated, then jotted a number on a scrap of paper and handed it to him. “Gets too bad, call me on my cell phone. I’ll come help you out, and if you get him sober, keep him away from that Digger guy.”

  “Who?” Nick wasn’t sure he heard her correctly.

  “Digger. I don’t know his real name. He’s some guy Scott met out in Washington. He keeps him supplied.”

  Nick thanked her and slid under the wheel. As he pulled away from the curb, Scott sagged against the door with a moan. Lord, please don’t let him be sick. Just before he turned the corner, Nick glanced in the rearview mirror. Dana hadn’t moved from the sidewalk.

  Wrinkling his nose, he fanned away the stench of alcohol and vomit that filled the small car. Evidently, Scott hadn’t had a bath in days, either. Nick ought to let the police haul his drunken carcass to jail. He lowered the top on the Mustang and glanced at his brother. Oh, great, he was turning green. It’d be a miracle if they made it home before Scott threw up again.

  14

  Eight-thirty and the temperature already approached ninety. Taylor’s feet dragged as she approached Oak Grove. Someone wanted to kill her, and she should be finding him instead of wasting her time digging into old memories. In spite of the heat, a cold shiver stabbed her stomach. Last night had brought more dreams about this place and her dad and clowns chasing her.

  In the dream, she’d been in the basement, and the clown was chasing her, his red lips leering and his fingers reaching to grab her. Taylor wiped sweat from her brow. Something deep inside shied away from climbing the steps and opening the door to those memories.

  Maybe the nightmares would go away on their own. They had once. After her dad left, Taylor had experienced these same nightmares off and on for almost two years, and then they’d stopped . . . until six months ago—about the time Michael dumped her.

  Tires crunched on the gravel lane behind her, and she turned. Jonathan. A reprieve.

  He lowered his window. “Be careful if you’re going inside. I was making a few repairs before we received the offer on the land and haven’t cleaned my mess up.”

  “Thought I would look around.”

  “I’d go in with you, but Ethan called a few minutes ago. That signature won’t wait.”

  “While I’m here, I think I’ll at least look around the first floor.”

  “Just be careful of the scrap lumber and nails scattered everywhere.”

  The truck jerked forward as an incoming text beeped on Taylor’s cell phone. She glanced at the screen and groaned. It was too early in the morning to hear from Zeke Thornton. He wanted to meet with her.

  At least she had his attention now.

  What time? she tapped back.

  Seconds later her cell rang, and Thornton showed up on her ID.

  “Good morning, Zeke.”

  “I’d like to meet within the hour,” he said. “The conference starts at noon. I can come to the farm, or would you rather meet in Logan Point at the sheriff’s department?”

  “You know where I live?”

  “You’re in Logan Point. How hard could it be to find the Martin farm?”

  She ignored his joke. “I’ll meet you at the sheriff’s office.”

  “How soon? I don’t want to be late for the introductory session.”

  The memories would have to wait. Taylor glanced down at her shorts and running shoes. Not quite appropriate for a meeting with Zeke and Ben. She might as well go ahead and dress for her lunch with Nick. “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

  In exactly forty-five minutes, Taylor parked the Rav4 beside the rambling white-bricked jail. Inside the building, the dispatcher caught her before she could orient herself.

  “Taylor! About time you came home.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Maggie had been a fixture at the county jail for as long as Taylor could remember, and she flashed her a smile. “Is the sheriff’s office still in the back?”

  “Hasn’t moved. Ben and some banty rooster are waiting on you.”

  That would be Zeke. Taylor took a deep breath at Ben’s door and pushed it open. Last time she was in this office, the whole gang was here, Ben included, withering under Sheriff Tom Logan’s wrath for toilet papering the mayor’s yard. Seemed like a big deal at the time. Now she knew what a big deal was.

  Ben nodded a welcome and handed her a manila envelope. “Copies of yesterday’s photos. And the fingerprints are in Jackson.”

  “Thanks.” She tucked them in her briefcase and glanced at Zeke. Not for the first time, she wondered where he purchased clothes to fit his scarecrow frame. “Morning, Zeke.”

  “Mornin
g.” He hitched his starched khakis. “You’re late.”

  She glanced at the digital clock on the gray wall. “One minute, Zeke. And who made you boss around here, anyway?”

  His mouth twitched, then he palmed his hands up. “You’re right. I’m sorry, but I really need to leave here by eleven-thirty to make the opening session of the conference.”

  “Then let’s get to work. Where do you want to start?”

  “This is as good a place as any.” Zeke pointed to the Coleman crime scene photo as he took a pad from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. “Whoever took this had a clear view of you. Did you notice anyone snapping photos at the crime scene?”

  She searched her memory. “No one other than you. Have you checked the people in the background of your crime scene photographs?”

  He shook his head. “Until yesterday, I didn’t know I needed to. The case was closed. Dale put Billy Carson back on it last night, and he’s processing the people in the photos. If this conference hadn’t been paid for, I would be on the first flight back to Seattle.”

  She could imagine the battle in Zeke’s mind over wasting taxpayer dollars versus working on the case. She turned to Ben. “Yesterday you said the poem seemed familiar. Have you remembered why?”

  “I wish. It’s one of those things just below the surface . . .”

  “Maybe if you let it go, it’ll come to you.” She rubbed her hands on her capris, wishing Zeke hadn’t put a deadline on their time. It made her want to rush. She took a calming breath and cleared her mind. “Okay, let’s look at what we know.”

  “We know the killer planned this thing to a T.”

  “I agree. Whoever masterminded the kidnapping chose Jenkins and the Coleman family. I’m thinking he cruised bars looking for someone he could use and encountered Jenkins. According to the people who knew him, Jenkins was loud and vocal about hating Jim Coleman. And if it hadn’t been Jenkins, it would have been someone else.”

  “Okay, I’m following you. I’ll call Carson and have him check out all the bars in Newton, show Jenkins’s picture.”

  Ben examined the photo of her jogging. “This looks like it was taken with a long lens.”

  Taylor picked up another photo, the one of her sitting on a flat rock. “It was. Just like this one. The camera is probably an SLR digital and expensive, or we’d have some grainy photos. But the one taken at the crime scene looks like a point-and-shoot was used, and it could’ve been taken by anyone at the crime scene. It was also taken before I found the note in my pocket. Are we all on board that the actual kidnapper is my stalker?”

  When they both nodded, she continued. “We thought the kidnapper was dead, and everyone’s attention was on Beth Coleman and little Sarah. Whoever he is, he could’ve easily gone unnoticed. It’s possible our killer didn’t leave the crime scene until after I did. Then I think he showed up at my house and attacked Dale and me.”

  “And he beat you to your house?” Zeke lifted his eyebrows. “Come on, Taylor, you’re better than that.”

  “Okay, so maybe he left earlier.”

  “Why didn’t he kill you when he had the opportunity?” Ben asked.

  She’d asked herself that question more than once. “I don’t know. Maybe Nick scared him off, or maybe it’s a game to him, like a cat toying with a mouse. He seems to know everything about me, where I am, my tastes . . .” She looked around Ben’s office. “Do you have a whiteboard? I’d like to compile a list.”

  Ben rolled in a whiteboard and handed Taylor a dry-erase marker.

  “Let’s start with the crime scene and work backward.” She wrote “stalker” at the top, and under that, she wrote “photos,” then glanced at Zeke. “Off the top of your head, what do you think when you see that?”

  “Two things. The photographer values quality and has access to money. The camera is expensive, and even though the last photo is shot with a cheaper camera, he used quality paper to print it.”

  Taylor blinked. She’d already concluded those points, but for Zeke to recognize them . . . “You’d make a pretty good profiler, Zeke.”

  He snorted. “I know quality when I see it.”

  That he did. She’d noticed that he bought the best in everything, even things like his business cards and the pen he guarded like it was made of gold. “You said two things?”

  “He was following you, or he knew you’d be there.”

  “Good.”

  “He hung around even though it was risky.”

  “Bingo.” She wrote “risk taker” on the board. “How did he know I was in Logan Point?”

  “Maybe he hacked your email account.”

  Taylor stood stock-still. “The university website crashed a couple nights ago, and if someone is hacking into their system, it could explain why my email has been slow lately.” She hadn’t thought of that and nodded toward him. “That’s good, Zeke.”

  She wrote “computer whiz” on the board. “I booked my flight online. And I’ve been emailing a friend about coming home.” She winced. “And I have Mom’s phone number and address in my contacts.”

  “If someone can hack a university system, they’d have no trouble finding where your family lives.” Ben stroked his beard. “What I want to know is, why? Why are you being targeted?”

  “I’ve hunted that dog to death.”

  Ben chuckled. “I can’t believe you remembered that old saying.”

  She couldn’t either and turned to Zeke. “Do you have any theories?”

  “You’re a threat to someone.”

  Taylor stared at Zeke, surprised once again. She’d been operating out of her original assessment that she was being stalked because someone was obsessed with her, not because she was a threat.

  Chill bumps prickled the back of her neck. She wouldn’t be a threat to a stranger. No, like 75 percent of all victims, she had a link to him, had crossed paths with him somewhere. And people who felt threatened, killed.

  Someone she knew wanted to kill her.

  15

  Nick rubbed his hand over his day-old beard and stared at the blinking cursor. Spending most of the night listening to Scott’s drunken ramblings did not make for fresh writing. It didn’t help that he kept seeing Taylor’s face and remembering they had a lunch date.

  He’d debated cancelling the date. What if Scott woke up and took off again? Nick didn’t think he would, given the way his brother kept thanking Nick for coming after him and for letting him come home. If he woke, which Nick doubted since Scott didn’t go to sleep until four, more than likely he would go back to sleep—it would take more than a few hours for the alcohol to wear off . . . long enough to meet Taylor.

  And that made for a whole new set of problems. Like having to tell her about the poem today—before someone else did. If only he could’ve gotten information from Scott last night. But his brother had been too drunk. Once Taylor found out Scott was here, she’d want to talk to him. That would be fine, except Nick had counted on talking to his brother first.

  He padded down the hallway to Scott’s old room and looked in. He hadn’t moved since Nick got him to bed. In sleep, Scott looked so much younger than nineteen. Innocent too.

  How did they get to this point? Scott accused of stalking, maybe involved in a murder? Wrong choices, for sure, and not all of them Scott’s. Nick should have listened to Angie when Scott first rebelled. She’d told him to fight the important battles and let the others slide instead of nit-picking his brother to death. No, he’d chosen battles like Scott’s long hair and not attending church with them. By the time Nick had realized his mistake, his brother was gone.

  Nick flexed his shoulders, trying to loosen tight muscles caused from too little sleep and too much time at the computer. He rummaged through Scott’s sack of clothes, trying to find something other than black, then gathered the grungy jeans and shirt he’d peeled off his brother when they’d arrived home. Holding them at arm’s length, Nick took them to the washer, turned the water on, and dropped them i
n.

  He checked his watch. An hour and a half before he met Taylor for lunch. He wanted to check out the sound system at the restaurant for the Friday night crowd, but there was time enough for one last cup of coffee before he left.

  In the kitchen, he eyed the nearly empty coffeepot. He didn’t remember drinking a whole pot of coffee. Nick poured the last dregs into his cup and set the pot in the sink. His gaze traveled to Angie’s cookbooks, settling on her favorite, and he took it to the table, where he reverently turned the pages. His heart caught at the sight of “Nick’s favorite rolls” scribbled in the margin.

  He closed his eyes and imagined her writing the note. What they’d shared had been exceptional. So why couldn’t he remember her face sometimes? He closed his eyes and focused on her memory, recalling the curve of her cheek, the freckles splayed across her nose. No dagger to his heart today. Some days he couldn’t bring up a clear image of her features.

  He’d loved his wife, still felt married. So how could he be so drawn to Taylor?

  Maybe because it was time to move on, step out of the lonely half-life he’d created, and embrace life again. But how could he do that when part of his heart died with Angie? Grieving had become familiar, almost comfortable.

  Nick couldn’t deny his growing attraction to Taylor. Could he open himself up again to the kind of love he’d shared with Angie? What if something happened and Taylor died? After all, she was involved in a dangerous situation. Why couldn’t she simply be an uncomplicated college professor instead of living life on the edge?

  He finished the bitter coffee and returned the cookbook to its place, then went to shave and get dressed. Before he left the house, he checked on Scott one last time. Judging from the sound of his snoring, his brother would probably sleep until Nick returned.

  Traffic was always busy in Memphis, and today was no different. Nick pulled into the parking lot of the Blues Espresso at half past eleven, parked, and went inside.

  “Hey, Nick!” Big Joe Tyson’s voice boomed across the café.

  He turned and waved to the owner of the restaurant. The former linebacker for the Detroit Lions jerked his ebony head toward the pit area.