Deadline

by Sandra Brown

  Everyone left except for the deputies who were to guard the house. Personnel from the sheriff’s office in Savannah were dispatched to pick up Hunter and Grant and bring them to the island. Amelia requested that the Metcalfs be allowed to accompany them. “They’ll be afraid of strangers.”

  They were delivered about an hour later by two deputies, one a young woman. The Metcalfs were mild-mannered people, who seemed a bit overawed to find themselves in such a situation.

  The boys knew no such restraint. After the two-day separation from their mother, they were excited to see her, talking over each other to gain her attention. Dawson stood back and watched as she hugged them tightly, kissing their faces when they let her, running her hands over them as though to reassure herself that they were well and safe.

  The kids’ joy over finding Dawson there was almost as exuberant. Amelia introduced him to the Metcalfs by name only. They probably took him for a plainclothes policeman assigned to guard the family. In any case, they hadn’t questioned his staying behind when they and the two deputies left.

  The boys then conducted him on a tour of the house that included everything from their Playstation to the empty bowl where their goldfish had met his demise at the beginning of the summer.

  The tour concluded in their bedroom, where Amelia announced that it was time for bed. They put up an argument. A compromise was reached only after Dawson agreed to read them their bedtime story.

  That had been nearly an hour ago. It had taken him that long to get them settled. Now as he entered the kitchen, he said to Amelia, “Ah, alone at last.”

  Her smile was grim. “Except for all the guards outside.”

  “A necessary evil.”

  “The boys finally went to sleep?”

  “Took two stories.”

  “Thanks for doing that.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Did they ask why Stef isn’t here?”

  “Grant mentioned her in passing, but nothing more was said.”

  “I’m surprised they’re not more curious.”

  “They’re kids.” He shrugged philosophically. “To them, two days is a long time. They’ve been distracted.”

  “By you being here.”

  “I filled a gap.”

  “And then some.”

  As she plugged in an electric kettle, she gave him a sidelong glance, possibly noting how ill at ease he felt in the homey kitchen. There was a bear-shaped cookie jar on the counter. The boys’ artwork was stuck to the refrigerator door with Disney-character magnets. The cookbooks lined up on the open shelf looked well used, not for show.

  By comparison, his apartment’s galley was sterile.

  She motioned him toward the dining table. “Have a seat. I cleared out the pantry today, but I found tea bags and cocoa mix in a canister. That’s all I have to offer.”

  “No apology necessary. My cupboard in Alexandria stays as bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s.”

  “You know nursery rhymes?”

  “My mom recited them all the time. I remember that one.”

  “Do your parents live in Virginia?”

  He told her about the fatal accident. “You know parents, always telling you to be careful anytime you get the behind the wheel. More than anything, mine worried about me being in a car wreck. Which turned out to be ironic, since that’s what killed them. They were driving home from a movie, on a weeknight, on a street they’d driven a million times. The driver of an oncoming car swerved to miss a squirrel crossing the street, lost control, hit them head-on.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  “The driver of the other car walked away from it. Devastated, of course. The Headlys took the loss of my parents almost as hard as I did. Headly and my dad had been friends since grade school.”

  “So it wasn’t just a figure of speech. He really is your godfather?”

  “He is. He held me at my baptism, which he often says didn’t take.”

  She gave a soft laugh. “You’re obviously very close.”

  “He’s a pain in the ass.”

  “My dad could be one, too, but his admonitions usually proved to be wise.”

  Seeing the recurring sadness creep over her, he said, “Hey,” and reached behind him for the jacket he’d hung on the back of the stool earlier. He pulled a Hershey’s bar from the pocket and produced it with a flourish. “I got this out of the minibar in my hotel room earlier today. Forgot about it till now. Want to flip for it?”

  “No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

  “When did you last eat?” When she had to stop and think about it, he said, “That’s what I thought. This is good energy. I’ll split it with you.”

  The kettle began to whistle. He chose cocoa over tea. When she set it down in front of him, she said, “I’m sorry I don’t have anything stronger. Not even a bottle of wine.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You jinxed it for me.”

  “Drinking?”

  He tilted his head up and met her eyes. “You told me the booze and pills wouldn’t help my problem. After that, they stopped working for me.”

  “I don’t think it was anything I said. You came to your senses.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe the night spent in jail turned me around. But don’t expect me to send Tucker a thank-you bouquet.”

  “What is it between you two?”

  “He hated me on sight. Don’t know why.”

  “You’re a head and a half taller.”

  “Ohhh. Is that it?” Seriously, he added, “I wanted to deck him for embarrassing you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Around the sheriff’s office I’m sure it’s well known by now that we were together in your house at dawn when they notified me about Stef.”

  She went back to the counter for her tea, then sat down across from him. He unwrapped the candy bar, broke it in two, and passed a half to her.

  She nibbled at it as she thoughtfully regarded him. “Dawson, what are you doing here?”

  “Having some cocoa.”

  She gave him a look.

  Unsure how to answer, he rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. Finally, in a quiet voice, he asked, “Do you want me to go?”

  She dunked her tea bag in the hot water several times, but left it steeping. “We’ve known each other for less than a week. I’m in a crisis situation. I don’t get why you’re hanging around, or why…” She looked at him wryly. “Or why I’m comfortable with it.”

  “Beats the hell out of me, too.” He could tell that his response surprised her. “Believe me, I didn’t plan on this.”

  “This…?”

  “You, Hunter and Grant, bedtime stories.” He glanced toward the smiling-bear face on the cookie jar. “It’s a far cry from a war zone, but damn near as nerve-racking for a man like me.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Because it was too late now for him to pull back without feeling that he was abandoning them. He should have kept them at arm’s length. He hadn’t. He was sunk in deep, good and involved, and there was no backing out without looking like a heel. Besides, he didn’t want to leave them. He couldn’t explain it to her, because he had no explanation for it himself. Except that he wanted her.

  There was that. But to become romantically involved would bugger up both their lives. Hers was already in upheaval, and his was a mess. It was neither wise nor honorable even to fantasize about making love to her.

  But he did. Constantly.

  He cleared his throat. “You need a friend right now. It’s as simple as that.” He was lying, because it wasn’t simple at all.

  She studied him for several seconds, then lowered her gaze. “I need a friend, and you need a story.”

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No. Hell, no.” When she raised her head, he saw the misgiving still in her eyes. “Amelia, my objectivity took a nosedive the instant I met you. You know it.”

  After a moment of shared staring, she busied herself
with removing the tea bag from the mug and taking a sip. Then she observed him polishing off his portion of the candy bar and washing it down with a sip of cocoa. “That’s a lot of chocolate. Won’t the caffeine keep you awake?”

  “If I’m lucky. You know what happens when I sleep.”

  The reminder of his nightmare brought back memories of what had come after: the kiss. It wavered there between them, as real as the steam rising from their beverage mugs. The atmosphere in the kitchen seemed to pressurize, but they didn’t look away from each other.

  He said, “I never properly thanked you for being there when I came out of the nightmare.”

  She made a dismissive movement that was so slight, anyone not eating her up with his eyes would have missed it.

  He wanted to tell her how many times since then he had thought about that kiss and how badly he wanted to repeat it, how much he wanted to touch her again, now. To hold her, stroke her soft skin, feel her breath against his face, have her naked and warm and shifting beneath him, to be inside her.

  If she knew the prurient drift of his thoughts and how difficult it was for him not to act on them, she wouldn’t be nearly so comfortable sharing tea and cocoa. She’d doubt that he was here only as a friend. But he couldn’t help thinking about it and wishing it were otherwise. He felt it only fair that she know that.

  “If I could have you after every nightmare, I’d have ten a night.”

  They were still staring into each other’s eyes when his cell phone jangled, which was probably just as well, since his resolve not to touch her again had all but evaporated.

  Dawson answered his phone on speaker. “I’m coming in,” Headly said. “Don’t shoot.” Without replying, Dawson clicked off. “That reminds me,” he said to her, “maybe you should rethink carrying the pepper spray at all times. And, for God’s sake, your phone.”

  “Not having my phone was a terrible oversight. I didn’t hear your calls. It and the pepper spray were in my handbag at the bottom of the stairs. But if I’d had the spray, you might have got it in the face. Why didn’t you identify yourself immediately?”

  “In case Jeremy was in here with you, Headly didn’t want to tip him off to our presence.”

  She sighed. “I almost wish it had played out that way.”

  “No,” he said emphatically. “You don’t.”

  “At least it would be over now.”

  “True. But you would probably be dead.”

  Diary of Flora Stimel—April 16, 1984

  We killed three people yesterday. Last night we celebrated to the point that everybody except me is still unconscious.

  It was a great day for us, not only because the robbery was successful (over $60,000), but it also took place on income tax day. Which was symbolic. That was Carl’s way of thumbing his nose at the federal government.

  I don’t feel so bad about the two guys guarding the armored truck. They were careless and—when you think about it—let down the people they work for. As Carl said, if they’d been doing their job the way they should have been, they’d be alive, the money would still be there, and we’d be the ones dead. None of us got hurt, except that I broke a fingernail when I pushed our hostage into the back of the van.

  I don’t know her name yet. The news people said it won’t be released until her next of kin is notified.

  She was Latino. Her hair had a bit of gray in it. In her younger years she might have been pretty. She was wearing little gold cross earrings. She was scared half to death and as we sped away from the scene, she started crying and blubbering in Spanish. I don’t know the language, but I guess she was pleading for her life. Carl was frantic to escape and kept yelling at Mel to drive faster.

  Carl was nervous because taking a hostage hadn’t been part of the plan, and he likes to stick to the plan. But the armored-truck driver must have sent a silent alarm before Carl shot him, because a cop car roared up out of nowhere, taking us all by surprise.

  The Mexican lady was an innocent bystander—that’s what the newsman called her. Carl grabbed her and pushed her toward me and told me to get her into the van while he held off the cop. The cop, seeing that we had a hostage, didn’t shoot back. Carl shot him, though. He’s in the hospital in critical condition. On TV they showed all the cops who’d come to the hospital to show their support. Carl laughed and said it was too bad we couldn’t attack the hospital and take them all out at once, save ourselves the trouble later.

  Anyway, back to the Mexican lady, she didn’t do as Carl ordered. She kept crying and chattering until she became hysterical and started wailing something terrible. But I’ve never heard anything as loud as the gun blast inside that van. After Carl shot her, it was awfully quiet except for the ringing in my ears. I guess it was that way with Carl and Mel, too, because nobody said anything for the longest time.

  We left her body in that van when we switched to another. I think because I touched her, they may get evidence off her clothes that will nail us. Since we started this, more than ten years ago now, the feds have gotten real smart about forensic stuff like that.

  Sometimes I wish we could just quit, collect Jeremy, and go someplace quiet and pretty and be a regular family. Jeremy is in third grade now. He’s making straight A’s and he’s on a Little League team. I doubt I’ll ever get to see him play, but I got to talk to him on the phone last week for ten whole minutes.

  Carl says maybe we can meet next month. I hope so, but, after today, he might not want to risk it. So far, nobody’s caught on to Randy and Patricia. To look at them, you’d think they were Beaver Cleaver’s mom and dad. But Carl says when you stop being careful is when you get caught. And if we got caught, that would be the end of us seeing Jeremy at all. They’d lock us away for a long, long time, if they didn’t just skip that part and execute us.

  I got off the subject again. (Jeremy is always on my mind!) We left that Mexican lady’s body in the ditched van. By the time we got to this hideout, we had all calmed down and started breathing easier. Carl declared the day a victory, especially after we counted the money.

  That’s when the party started. Everybody got wasted. I smoked and drank more than usual, because it bothered me some, the way Carl had shot that woman just because she was making a fuss. We had nothing against her. She wasn’t guarding that truck. Just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She looked to be in her midforties, making it almost certain that she had a husband, kids, grandkids maybe. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. They weren’t partying last night.

  This is the first job Mel has done with us. He came recommended as a driver with nerves of steel. He lived up to his reputation and got us out of there, so I guess Carl felt that he deserved a reward. Me.

  I hate it when he lets another man you-know-what me. Because after, when Carl sobers up, he’s mad at me, like it had been my idea. When actually, I never like it. It makes me feel dirty. Like I’m trash. And I get to thinking that if I’m no more valuable to him than that, he might leave me behind if we ever got trapped.

  But I really don’t think he would. He didn’t leave me behind at Golden Branch, when I thought for sure he was going to.

  He’d have my skin, though, if he ever caught me with this diary. I don’t want to think about how mad he’d be. He might give me to somebody like Mel and never take me back.

  Chapter 17

  Jeremy Wesson idly scratched his full beard as he listened to a ten p.m. local radio news update, which obliged him with a shorthand summation of Willard Strong’s courtroom testimony earlier that day.

  Willard’s time line had been off by a few hours, but otherwise his recollections and suppositions were damn near on the money as to how things had gone down the day Jeremy had killed the man’s wife with his shotgun while he was sleeping it off in the cab of his pickup truck.

  Whether or not a jury bought Willard’s explanation was a wait-and-see, but it wasn’t looking good for the accused. Jeremy didn’t hold a personal grudge against Willard, wh
o had been handpicked to play an essential role, and he’d served his purpose well. He looked the part. He’d acted the part. And had Jeremy not been directing those events, Willard was of such a violent nature, he eventually might have killed both Jeremy and Darlene for their cheating.

  However, there was never a chance of that happening. Jeremy had propelled the plot from the beginning to the end. Willard’s conviction would seal the deal, so to speak. In everyone’s mind, beyond a reasonable doubt, Jeremy Wesson would be dead along with poor Darlene.

  The mission—to set up Jeremy Wesson’s ruination as a testament to America’s turpitude—had been painstakingly planned and meticulously carried out. He had set himself up as someone who’d seemingly had everything a man could want: beautiful wife, esteemed father-in-law, two perfect sons, a bright future. Ruination of that American dream had occurred when he returned from war—damaged, self-destructive, and on a slippery slope to a disastrous end.

  It had taken years to pull off, and some of the guises he’d had to assume were more easily adaptable and maintainable than others.

  He’d made a good Marine. Applying his marksmanship skills had come naturally, but so had instructing others. He’d enjoyed the camaraderie, particularly during his tours to the Middle East. He’d even cultivated a few friendships that, later, he regretted having to sever. Of course he hadn’t bought into the God-and-country dogma of the corps. He’d had to fake that, but he’d done so convincingly.

  Becoming Amelia Nolan’s suitor had been much more challenging. His callowness hadn’t all been pretense. He felt much more at home in a military barracks than in a ballroom. Randy and Patricia had taught him the basic rules of comportment, and he’d attended enough officers’ functions to know how to conduct himself on formal occasions.