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

by Bradley, Patricia

  “Are you sure you don’t mind interviewing Detective Wilson by yourself tomorrow?”

  “Be better if you were there, but I understand.” Taylor glanced at her watch. Almost eight. Less than an hour before dark. “I’m going to scoot out of here and see if Nick will let me talk to Scott.”

  Livy nodded. “I’ll take good notes, and if a miracle happens and I can get away tomorrow morning, I’ll meet you at Wilson’s. Ten o’clock?”

  “That’d be great.” Taylor gathered her purse and notebook and looked around for Agent Keller. He stood near the doorway.

  “You’re not leaving us, are you?” Keller asked.

  “I need to work on another case.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Zeke get on the elevator and waved. “But thanks for letting me sit in.”

  “I appreciate your insight on the victims. If you’re ever interested in a career with the FBI, give me a call.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” she said with a smile. The high praise lifted her spirits, and she hummed as she rode the elevator down to the first floor.

  Heavy clouds had hastened nightfall. Goose bumps raised on her arms as she crossed Washington Street to the parking garage. She would not panic. Lightning arced across the black sky, revealing heavy clouds to the west. A gust of wind pushed against her, carrying the coolness of hail in it. The storm hadn’t crossed the Mississippi River yet—hopefully she’d make it home before it started.

  As she started her car, Taylor slid her cell phone from her pocket and turned it on. Immediately, a beep warned of a low battery. She groaned. She’d left her car charger in Washington. Taylor glanced at the cell screen. Five missed calls. Three from Nick, one from her mom, the last one from Livy.

  She hit the call-back button and Livy’s number dialed. No answer. She glanced at the fuel gauge. Less than an eighth of a tank. Why hadn’t she noticed that earlier? She had no idea if there was a gas station in downtown Memphis. Surely she had enough gas to make it to the Walmart in Logan Point. She dialed her mom’s number.

  “Taylor where . . . you? Nick’s . . . reach . . .”

  “I’m in a car garage, and you’re breaking up. I’m on my way, but I have to stop at Walmart.”

  “Don’t—”

  The phone died.

  Scott stared at the families in the park, walking, spread out on blankets enjoying a picnic; in a far field, a few people played baseball. He and Nick and Angie had done that. His thoughts drifted . . .

  “Why did we have to leave Seattle?”

  “You know why.” Digger poured more of the amber liquid into Scott’s glass. “You did those bad things . . .”

  “No! I didn’t do it!”

  A fly buzzed near Scott’s ear. He jerked upright, slapping the air. Sweat dribbled down his face. He must have dozed off. Day had slipped into night, yet the air remained still and hot. Lightning flashed to the west followed by a low rumble. Maybe not for long.

  The conversation with Digger returned. Did he really do what Digger said he did? No! He didn’t hurt that sheriff. Or Dr. Martin. Did he? Digger was his friend—he wouldn’t lie to him. He pressed his hand to his sweaty head. He needed to talk to him. But first he had to get a phone.

  Thirty minutes later Scott exited a Target store with a throwaway phone, a soda, two candy bars, and thirteen dollars and fifty-three cents of Charlie’s money he’d borrowed. He’d decided not to use his debit card, fearing the cops might trace him. It hadn’t rained, but the threat still held. He dug through his billfold, looking for his friend’s number, and found the photo of the two of them—Digger with his arm draped over Scott’s shoulders. He put it back in the billfold and kept looking for Digger’s cell phone number, finally finding it. Digger answered on the second ring.

  “What’s going on, Scotty boy? Where are you?”

  “At a Target store.” Scott climbed into the truck cab.

  “Doesn’t tell me much.”

  “It’s near Audubon Park.” He couldn’t remember the name of the street. “Dr. Martin wants to talk to me. You gotta help me. Tell her I didn’t do it.”

  “You been smoking too much dope, boy?”

  “No! I’m sober. You—”

  Sirens wailed into the opposite end of the parking lot. Scott snapped the phone shut. Maybe the cops made Charlie’s truck, and they were coming after him. Or maybe Digger told them where he was. He shook his head. He wasn’t thinking straight. Digger didn’t have time. But he had to get out of Memphis.

  Immediately, his phone chirped. He ignored it as he eased the truck out of the parking lot into the night. Maybe he didn’t need to trust anyone.

  Or, maybe he just needed to do what was right. Take the truck home and face the music.

  27

  Meeting or no meeting, he wished Taylor would answer her phone or text he’d sent. The call went to voice mail again, and Nick left another message for her to call him. Reluctantly, he scrolled to his recent calls for the Martin number. He’d already talked to Allison once, explaining that Scott had disappeared.

  He never dreamed Scott would steal Charlie’s truck. He’d asked himself over and over why his brother had run. And came up with only one answer—he was afraid to talk to Taylor. According to Kate, after Scott learned Taylor wanted to talk with him, he’d been nervous and then disappeared upstairs. Evidently, when Charlie was taking a nap, his brother had snuck into Charlie’s room and stolen the truck keys. And the whiskey along with sixty dollars. And Charlie’s .22 caliber pistol was missing, presumably taken by Scott. Nausea burned up Nick’s esophagus. Evidently, he didn’t know his brother at all. He touched the Martin number, and it redialed.

  “Hello?” Allison answered.

  “Have you heard from Taylor?” he asked.

  “She just called, but the phone went dead and now she won’t answer. I didn’t get a chance to tell her that Scott’s missing. Ethan just left to intercept her at the exit off the bypass. She said something about stopping at Walmart, so Jonathan is going to wait there in case Ethan misses her.”

  “Call me if you hear from her.” He hung up and paced the floor as thunder rumbled overhead. Finally, he grabbed his keys. Driving to Walmart was infinitely easier than waiting.

  Lightning exploded from an ominous wall cloud that dipped almost to the ground. Taylor pressed the trigger on the pump at Walmart and willed the gas to flow faster. She did not want to get caught in the approaching storm. She stopped at ten gallons and didn’t wait for the receipt.

  Wind rocked the Rav4 as Taylor drove the SUV faster than she should on the dark highway from town to Coley Road. Headlights flashed in her rear mirror and were lost as she rounded a curve. Another bolt arced across the sky, then darkness swallowed the night once more.

  A vehicle approached from behind.

  Fast.

  Someone else wanted to get home before the storm hit. She hugged the right side of the road, giving a wide berth for the car to come around. High beams reflected in her rearview mirror, blinding her as the vehicle rode her bumper. Had to be a truck—lights were too high to be a car. She tapped the brake pedal, but the warning went unheeded.

  Taylor slowed for the driver to pass, but the truck stayed on her bumper. Her chest tightened, cutting her breath. This wasn’t someone wanting to get home. She gripped the steering wheel and stomped the accelerator. The truck matched her speed. She scanned the road ahead and glimpsed pin dots of light. Another vehicle.

  Too far away.

  The dots disappeared, leaving her alone with the truck once more.

  Another two miles before she turned onto Coley Road. She envisioned the winding, lonely road. No, not going there. Her headlights picked up a road sign. The old Memphis–Logan Point Highway that looped back into town. Perfect. She slowed to make the turn. Her body jerked against her seat belt as the truck rammed the Rav4.

  Taylor slammed the accelerator to the floor and shot forward, missing the road. The lights swung out and the vehicle pulled even. She cut her eyes t
oward it.

  A flash of light.

  Her window exploded.

  Another flash.

  The jerk was shooting at her!

  She yanked the steering wheel to the right and braked hard. The SUV fishtailed. Taylor fought for control as the front tire skidded into loose gravel.

  “No!” The scream hung in the air as the Rav4 flipped over. Time slowed to a standstill as glass flew everywhere. The SUV landed hard, jarring her grip loose from the steering wheel. It flipped again, landing on its wheels.

  Like a shroud, deathly silence enveloped her.

  Her head was braced against the steering wheel. Blood trickled between her eyes and down her nose, dripping on her pants. She raised her head up, but dizziness forced it back down as the odor of gasoline permeated the air. Got to get out. Taylor fumbled to unfasten the seat belt.

  Footsteps crunched toward her.

  She stilled her hand, her whole body. The footsteps stopped. Taylor held her breath and barely cracked her eyelids. Legs stood close enough to touch through the shattered window. Faded jeans. A man’s legs. Her mind snapped a picture to recall later.

  If later came.

  The deathly quiet was broken only by his raspy breathing.

  Rrrack.

  No! She’d heard that sound too many times not to know a bullet had just been chambered. She didn’t want to die.

  Dear God, please, no! She waited for the bullet. If you’re real, God, help me.

  Click.

  The empty sound echoed in her brain.

  She struggled not to move.

  The distant sound of tires broke the tomblike silence. The man spun around, and once again gravel crunched, fast, like he was running. Seconds later, a motor revved to life and tires squealed. Taylor released her pent-up breath and gulped another one, inhaling the musty scent of rain mingled with gas fumes.

  Gas. Hot motor. Her fingers fumbled with the seat belt again. Nausea came in waves, and her chest heaved against the seat belt.

  Got to get out . . .

  Nick’s unease grew as he turned off Coley Road onto the narrow highway to Logan Point. The impending storm did little to calm him. He hadn’t felt such a strong need to pray for someone since Angie lay dying in his arms.

  Minutes later, he glimpsed headlights from the opposite direction. Maybe it was Taylor. He slowed. The approaching lights blazed in his eyes, and Nick flashed his high beams. “Come on, bud, dim them.”

  The vehicle roared past. Half-blinded by the lights, he couldn’t identify the type of vehicle, much less the driver. He was certain it wasn’t Taylor, though. She had too much sense to drive that fast on this crooked road. He drove on. If he didn’t meet her by the time he reached Walmart, he’d wait at the exit.

  Half-dollar-sized raindrops splattered his windshield. He rounded a curve and spied a car on the side of the road. Wasn’t Taylor’s Rav4, but he slowed. Twin beams of light blazed from the tree line. Someone was in trouble.

  He pulled onto the shoulder of the road and jumped out just as the thunderstorm broke. Driving rain whipped him across the highway. A man raced toward him.

  “There’s a car in the ditch, and a woman trapped in it.”

  Nick could barely hear the man over the din of the rain.

  “I can’t get the door open. You got something we can use for a lever?”

  Nick wiped rain from his eyes. “Have you called 911?”

  “My wife did.”

  Nick ran back to his Mustang and threw open his trunk. There was a tire iron somewhere. There. He grabbed it and sprinted toward the wrecked car.

  Lightning revealed a gold Rav4. Nick’s heart almost stopped. In the driver’s seat, Taylor struggled with the seat belt. Blood flowed from a gash on her head.

  No! He clambered down the ditch and jerked on the door jammed into the frame. Taylor turned toward him, her eyes frantic. The odor of gasoline filled his nostrils.

  “Nick, help me!”

  Hopelessly lost, Scott slowed the old truck as flashing lights revealed an ambulance on the side of the road. He was a goner. He searched for somewhere to turn around so he could return to Memphis, but a flashlight already motioned him forward. Blood thumped in his head, drowning out everything else. He eased forward and caught sight of Nick’s convertible, then a woman being loaded into the ambulance. Dr. Martin. For a second, he didn’t breathe.

  Whatever happened to her, the cops would say he did it. He thought his chest would burst as he came alongside the state trooper, but evidently the trooper wasn’t looking at license plates, only directing traffic. He signaled Scott to keep moving.

  Once past the wreck, Scott pulled his thoughts together. He wanted to do the right thing, but he didn’t want to go to jail. Maybe if he called Nick, talked to him, his brother would help him out of this mess. He pulled over on the side of the road and punched in Nick’s number, then waited, his thumb hovering over the end button.

  “Hello.” Nick’s voice sounded strained.

  “I shouldn’t have run away.”

  “Scott? Where are you? Did you force Taylor off the road?”

  “No!” Why would Nick think that? “Is she going to be okay?”

  “How did you know she was hurt?” The hollow sound of Nick’s voice filled his ear. “So help me, Scott, if you’re the one who hurt her . . .”

  “You gotta believe me, Nick. I’d never hurt her.”

  “Then how did you know?”

  “I was bringing Charlie’s truck back when I saw the wreck.”

  “Then why didn’t you stop? Turn yourself in?”

  “I got scared.”

  “I’m not buying your story. Scott, where are—”

  Scott pressed the red button, cutting Nick off. It was no use. Nobody believed him, not even his brother. He rested his head against the steering wheel. He had to get out of Logan Point before someone recognized Charlie’s truck. But where could he hide?

  His cell rang and he answered it. “Nick, I promise, I didn’t hurt Dr. Martin.”

  “Taylor’s been hurt?” Digger’s voice crackled through the receiver.

  “Somebody ran her off the road, and Nick thinks I did it. She’s hurt. Bad. But I didn’t do it, I promise.”

  “I believe you, Scotty boy.”

  Silence filled the airwaves.

  “You still there, Digger? Where are you?”

  “I’m out of town, but I’m on my way home. Call your attorney. He won’t turn you in.”

  “Why can’t you help me?”

  “You don’t need me, you need a lawyer.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Do it, Scott.”

  Nick’s gut wrenched as the ambulance doors closed. Just like the surgery doors that swallowed Angie’s gurney. He couldn’t do it again. Wouldn’t.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he fished it out. Scott!

  “Why did you hang up?” Nick walked away from the ambulance.

  “You gotta believe me. I was bringing Charlie’s truck back.”

  “Take the truck home now and wait for me.”

  “No, they’ll arrest me.” Panic filled his voice.

  “Then go to your girlfriend’s and wait for me.”

  Silence filled the airway.

  “Scott!”

  His brother had hung up on him again. Nick jammed his phone in his pocket and hurried toward his car.

  “Hey, Sinclair, wait up.”

  He turned. Sheriff Ben Logan strode toward him. Oh, great. Their earlier conversations about Scott’s disappearance had been tense. He waited, dreading the new questions.

  “I thought I told you to stay put in case your brother came back to Kate’s,” Ben said.

  “I took that as a suggestion. Besides, Kate and Charlie were there.”

  “Good thing, I guess.” Ben slipped a notepad from his shirt pocket. “You think your brother did this to Taylor?”

  “I . . .” War raged in Nick’s head. “You gotta believe me, Nick. I’d
never hurt her.” But he had run away. And he had a gun. Not telling Ben that he’d talked to Scott was the same as lying, and it ate at his insides.

  Why did he keep holding on to his brother’s innocence? Because he knew his brother. But what if it turned out that Nick didn’t know him at all? He took a deep breath. “Scott didn’t do this. He couldn’t. But I think he might know who did. Except, I don’t think he realizes he knows.”

  Gasoline fumes lingered in the air, and he glanced toward the Rav4, where a crew worked to get it loaded on a wrecker.

  “It’s a wonder the car didn’t blow,” Ben said.

  “Yeah.” Nick wanted to punch something, or someone.

  “I need your help.” The sheriff flipped his pad to a new page. “Taylor couldn’t give me a description of the assailant or even the type of vehicle, only that it might’ve been a truck. Did you meet anyone before you reached the scene?”

  The speeding vehicle. “I did. They were flying. High beams, like on a truck.”

  Ben scribbled in his pad, then looked up. “Start at the beginning.”

  “I was looking for Taylor. Allison had—” Nick sucked in a breath. “Has anyone called her?”

  “Her line’s busy. The storm may have knocked out her power. I’m sending a deputy as soon as I can cut one loose from the scene. You were saying?”

  Nick cleared his throat. He didn’t like what he saw in Ben’s eyes. Not suspicion exactly, more like the sheriff believed Nick was holding something back. Now was the time to tell him about Scott’s call. But if he did . . .

  “I’d been trying to reach Taylor to let her know Scott had disappeared, but she didn’t answer my calls. So I called her mom and found out Taylor was on her way home. Allison told me Ethan and Jonathan had left to look for her. It sounded like a good plan. I never saw either of them.”

  “How about your brother. Have you seen him?”

  Nick hesitated, then shook his head. “I’ve talked with him, though. Claims he was bringing Charlie’s truck home when he saw the accident, so he must have passed by here. I didn’t see him and don’t have a clue where he is now.” A weight lifted from his shoulders.