Devil in the Deadline

by Walker, LynDee

  Kyle slumped against the wall under the coach light and hauled in a deep breath, his jaw clenching and unclenching. The air whooshed back out and he turned serious blue eyes on me. “So, are you coming with me?”

  Time stopped.

  I didn’t know.

  But I couldn’t tell him that. I turned back for the door, my brain racing for a solution that wouldn’t leave someone with hurt feelings.

  Total blank.

  Joey’s wingtips echoed across the floor inside, and he pulled the door open.

  “I take it you knew about this?” He gestured to the boarded-up window, his eyes on Kyle.

  Kyle stood up straight, the two of them practically nose-to-nose. “I was here when it happened.”

  Joey tipped his head to one side, his dark eyes flicking to me. “I see.” The words were crisp. “At least you didn’t let her get killed.”

  “She tries way too hard.”

  Lord save me. Where was a good plague of locusts or lightning strike when I needed one?

  Kyle moved away from the wall, hands in his pockets affecting a casual pose. Joey stepped onto the porch, folding his arms across his chest. They moved in orbit around me, sizing each other up, both of them watching me like I might grow another head. If the physics had worked out in my favor, I would’ve. Anything to stop this testosterone fest.

  “Miller, right?” Joey asked. My eyebrows shot to the top of my head.

  Kyle nodded. “Special Agent,” he hit that hard, “Miller. ATF. I’d like Nicey to stay at my place this weekend. I can keep her safe there.”

  He reached a hand toward me, then pulled it back when I glared at him. The words were sweet, but his motive had less to do with protecting me than it did beating Joey. And I wasn’t too stupid to realize that.

  Joey nodded, pretending to think that over for an endless minute. He turned his dark eyes on me. “If you’d be more comfortable at home, I’m happy to stay here with you,” he said, the corners of his mouth edging up in that sardonic grin that usually turned my knees to gelato. “That was the plan anyway, right?”

  I shot Joey the same watch-yourself glare I’d just thrown at Kyle. He wasn’t lying. But he was being unnecessarily cruel, and that struck me as beneath him.

  Kyle stiffened. “I’m a trained sharpshooter,” was all he said. Crap.

  “I’m pretty handy with a gun myself,” Joey replied, his voice dropping ominously. I knew that tone. Double crap.

  “And why would that be?” Kyle asked, his eyes going to Joey’s midsection in search of a gun bulge under his jacket. There wasn’t one. “It seems you know quite a bit more about me than I do about you.”

  “I do my homework,” Joey said.

  “I wasn’t aware there was an assignment.” Kyle’s eyes flashed.

  “I don’t think that’s my fault,” Joey’s voice kept the dangerous heaviness. “Or my problem. Agent Miller.”

  My eyes dropped to Kyle’s calf, where I’d never known he carried a gun until last night. Not that I thought he would start shooting at people. But the tension in the air would’ve withstood a chainsaw.

  “Why don’t we rectify that?” Kyle’s words had a hard edge. Commanding. I’d only ever heard it once before. My thoughts flashed back to a gasoline-soaked warehouse and a very different standoff. “Starting with your name.”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business. I’m sure Nichelle will tell you anything about me she thinks you need to know.” Joey’s fingers curled into a fist at his side, his eyes cutting to me as he stepped toward Kyle.

  “I’m sorry, did it sound like a question?” Kyle put one foot forward, his nostrils flaring. “It wasn’t.”

  Joey’s arm twitched.

  My eyes ping-ponged between them for half a heartbeat. No matter who swung first, Joey would wind up in handcuffs for decking a federal agent, and Kyle would waste no time with fingerprints and a background check that would produce everything including Grandma’s lasagna recipe.

  And that was only the first reason I didn’t want them in a brawl on my porch.

  Profiles tense and fists balled, they each took another step.

  I jumped into the middle.

  “That’s enough,” I said, wriggling around so I had one hand on each chest. Their heart rates would’ve convinced any doctor they’d just run a marathon.

  “Go in the house, Nichelle.” The words slid through someone’s teeth, so low I couldn’t swear who said them. So I lost my temper with them both.

  “Did I stutter? That’s enough!” I stomped one Manolo and shoved with both arms. They each staggered back half a step, tight jaws going slack. “While I think you both have honorable intentions—or you did when you got here, at least—I feel a bit too much like that baby in King Solomon’s court. So I’ll thank you to take your hormone overdose elsewhere.”

  Kyle looked like I’d slapped him. “Nichelle—” he began.

  I kept my hand up. “Not right now.”

  “You’re not safe here,” he said.

  “I assure you, she’s perfectly safe with me,” Joey said.

  I whirled on one heel, my head verging on explosion. “Stop. It.” I bit out.

  “You can’t stay here alone.” Kyle stepped to the door, laying a hand on the knob. “If you don’t want to come with me,” his Adam’s apple bobbed with a hard swallow, “at least let your friend here stay.”

  “The one who offers to give up the baby keeps her in that parable, yes?” Joey murmured, glancing between me and Kyle. He arranged his face into the stoically unreadable drive-Nichelle-batshit-crazy look, his armor of composure settling back around him.

  “This isn’t about winning,” Kyle said, his eyes on me. “It’s about keeping you from getting killed.”

  “If that’s the objective, I suggest we consider the possibility our friends with the shotgun could be the least of our worries,” Joey said, pulling a folded newspaper from inside his jacket.

  Kyle and I both turned questioning eyes on him. He opened the paper to my story on Jasmine’s (Ruth. Whatever.) identity, and folded it back, holding up the photo Larry had sharpened and enlarged.

  “Say the cops are right and this is a serial,” Joey said, his gaze flicking between me and Kyle.

  I opened my mouth to object, and he raised one hand. “I’m not agreeing with them. Just asking you to consider it. Maybe a serial with ties to your televangelist, even.”

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “You don’t see it?” That was directed at Kyle, whose sharp intake of breath told me I was out of the loop.

  “She’s pretty,” I said, snatching the paper and studying the picture. “She looks happy. Friendly.”

  “She looks…” Joey exchanged a glance with Kyle, who turned horrified eyes on me.

  “Like you.” Kyle finished, barely above a whisper. “She looks like you. Nichelle, please come home with me.”

  Joey leaned against the porch railing. “Your call, sweetheart.”

  My brain reeled, my eyes flashing from one of them to the other and back to the photograph in my hands. She had long dark hair. A straight nose. Nicely-almond-shaped green eyes. With their words rolling around my head, she didn’t look unlike me. Cecilia Erickson’s Facebook photo skated through my thoughts, and my stomach plummeted to my knees.

  “Your involvement with the story would put you on a serial’s radar,” Kyle said. “Nichelle—” He stopped, his gaze screaming a plea.

  Mine jumped back and forth across the porch.

  “I can’t.” The words strangled around the lump in my throat.

  Joey reached for my hand, but I pulled away, brushing past Kyle and grabbing the dog and her bag before I turned for my car.

  “You’re right. Both of you. It’d be stupid to stay here alone before someone figures out what’s going on. But I can’t choose. So I choose me. I’m sorry if I’ve done anything to hurt either of you—please, please know it wasn’t intentional.” My breath hitched, and I put m
y free hand to my throat.

  “Nichelle,” Joey’s pitch rose with alarm.

  “We’ll be fine.”

  I ran for the car before the tears could spill over. Backing out of the driveway, I caught a watery glimpse of something I never thought I’d see—Kyle and Joey standing together, gesturing and talking like they were planning a golf weekend—or maybe about to pick up where I’d interrupted their fistfight.

  I didn’t stick around to see which.

  27.

  A way to help

  Driving northwest out of Richmond, I didn’t spare the horses until Culpepper. I found a four-room inn nestled on a corner in the historic district. Where better to hide from the world than a charming Victorian with wraparound porches and plenty of rockers?

  And an owner who might take a check. With no idea who was looking for me, I didn’t want to use a credit card or visit an ATM anytime soon.

  I parked in a gravel lot out back with only one other car and tucked Darcy under one arm.

  A brass bell over the front door announced my arrival and a woman who looked much more like Mrs. Claus than anyone I’d ever actually met closed the ledger on her antique cherry desk and looked up. “Can I help you, doll?” She flashed two rows of denture-perfect teeth.

  She could. And did. I took a key ten minutes later and climbed the sweeping staircase to the Jefferson room.

  It was just as period and lovely as the rest of the house, dominated by a giant claw-footed tub and a stone fireplace. I set up Darcy’s bed, food, and water in the opposite corner from the tub and kicked my heels off, crossing the plush rug to the canopy bed. Flinging myself across it, I let my thoughts wander.

  A dead woman who looked like me. Enough to scare both of the men I refused to think about.

  It wasn’t a serial—and if it was, I was in the best place I could be. But my gut said Landers was lifting rocks to no avail. Twelve hours ago, he’d seemed on the verge of admitting as much.

  I knew why he had to focus there. Public safety was his first priority.

  The truth was mine.

  So what did I know?

  Aaron and Landers had the wrong person in jail. I’d eat my Manolos if I was wrong about that. And I knew they knew it, too. Politics in policework irritates me on a good day, but this nonsense had me plain old pissed off. The sooner they knew who really did it, the sooner Picasso would be free. A little voice in the back of my head said I’d be freeing him to go back to peddling portraits for pennies.

  Wait. What if it didn’t have to be that way?

  I sat up, snatching up the phone.

  Jenna sounded out of breath when she picked up, but her tone brightened when she heard my voice. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Enough for a half-dozen margaritas,” I said. “But until we have time for that, I have a question for you: do you still know anyone in the RAU art department?”

  “My favorite prof is the department chair there,” she said. “We had lunch just last month. Why? Did an artist kill those women?”

  “The cops have one in custody, but I don’t think he did,” I said. “He’s homeless. Young. I think he’s mildly autistic. Nice guy, and he’s really talented, Jen. I’ve only seen pencil sketches, but—”

  “Did he do the sketches I saw in the paper?” She pulled in a sharp breath. “I knew those didn’t come from the PD. The lines, the subtle shadows—that was great work.”

  “He did. I’d like for him to not return to being homeless when they have to let him go. You think you can help?” It was a big favor.

  I needed desperately to do something good for someone.

  “Worth a shot. There’s always room for that kind of talent on a faculty,” she said. “You think he could teach?”

  “I think so.” I sighed, a smile flitting across my face. “Thank you, doll.”

  “Anytime. You okay?”

  “Eh,” I said. “I’ll be better when this story is filed and we can catch up.”

  I hung up and flipped my laptop open, clicking into the sealed court transcript Kyle sent me.

  Three hours later, I looked up from my screen when Darcy yipped and scratched at the foot of the bed.

  If it wasn’t Jealous Jared, it was Wolterhall.

  It had to be. The testimony was horrifying. Violent. And his weapon of choice? A knife.

  Somebody bought a juror to cause that dismissal.

  I stood and clipped Darcy’s leash to her collar. “Two seconds, girl,” I said, looping the leash over my wrist and unzipping my bag. I pulled out navy cotton slacks and a white oxford with a button-down collar, laying them carefully over the armchair and smoothing out wrinkles before I clicked my tongue at Darcy and turned for the door.

  Elise said the ministers at Way of Life worked Saturdays.

  Hopefully Mr. Wolterhall did, too.

  My alarm buzzed before the stars faded from the inky sky, and Darcy growled from her bed when I turned the lamp on.

  “This is not my idea of fun, either,” I said as I pulled on the academy uniform and brushed my hair. She tucked her face under a paw.

  No makeup, per Elise’s instructions, meant a little moisturizer and a quick look in the mirror, and I was ready to go. I slid Andrews’s infernal camera into my pocket, just in case I could get Bob a few brownie points with it. Laying a potty pad next to the tub for Darcy, I ruffled her fur on my way out the door.

  I started the car, pausing to open the text messages on my BlackBerry before I started the half-hour drive to Way of Life.

  Swallowing hard, I clicked Joey’s number. “Have some snooping to do today. Know you’re mad, but you love D. She’s at the Rose House Inn in Culpepper. Just in case. Wish this weekend had gone as planned. Really.” I hit send before I could chicken out.

  My BlackBerry binged ten minutes into my drive. I didn’t look. The heaviness in my stomach said I couldn’t deal with Joey’s goodbye and still focus on work. Psycho first. Tears later.

  I cranked up Janis Joplin, questions from the list I’d made during the world’s longest soak in that fabulous tub the night before flitting around my head. If I could manage a chat with Wolterhall and find the minister Jasmine worked with, I’d call the day a win. And maybe help Aaron get the warrant he was after, too.

  I parked along a narrow dirt drive behind the barn, the first cantaloupe-colored rays of day peeking over the horizon. Thankful for my sneakers, I turned toward the shed, probably a quarter-mile across the pasture.

  Easing the door open, I peeked through the crack. Empty. I slipped inside and leaned on the edge of the workbench stretching the length of the back wall. Deep breaths. As long as I wasn’t obvious, I was safe.

  Elise said the ministerial staff didn’t keep track of the students closely, no matter how well their assistants helped them fake it. That was the crucial thing about Saturday: no assistants. I was fuzzy on the why, but it had something to do with preparing for service in solitude to receive God’s anointing. And saving people’s souls from the fires of eternal Hell. The day off was a bonus for the secretaries.

  My gaze roamed over the feed bags, still in their perfectly symmetrical stacks. Four days since I’d been there last, and there wasn’t a single bag missing. Surely they didn’t order those one at a time?

  Before I could consider that fully, voices—male ones—took over ninety percent of my attention. The other ten whirled desperately for an escape route.

  Early morning. When they feed the livestock.

  Shit, shit, double shit.

  I shoved the toolbox aside and dove under the bench, pulling the case back in front of me and trying not to yelp when I lost a nail to the corner. Putting the end of my smarting finger in my mouth, I tasted blood and blinked back tears, but dropped my head to my knees and stayed quiet.

  The door crashed open half a minute later, the guys divvying up work. “Let’s get done and go back to bed” was the general theme of their conversation. Sending a thank you heavenward, I hugged my knees and tried
to be as small and invisible as possible.

  “Why do we have to do this on Saturday, anyway?” one guy said. “They have miles of grass out there. They won’t starve.”

  “A glad heart and many hands make light work,” another replied. “Your outlook is selfish. We’re saving the eternal souls of every person here by keeping our food sources pure. Like the reverend says, pure food makes a pure soul and brings us closer to God.”

  The road to Hell was paved with Pop-Tarts? My eyes popped wide, but I kept quiet.

  The other voice grouched quieter. Plastic met plastic—bins opening and closing, maybe. Mr. Pure began singing a hymn under his breath, which sounded so close I was too petrified to look up.

  A rattling that signified buckets being picked up followed, then retreating footsteps. The doors opening and closing. Three heartbeats. Five. I raised my head and blinked. Easing the toolbox aside, I peeked out from under the workbench. Alone again. I wanted out of the shed before they came back, and I had no frame of reference for when that might be. But if I ran, I might miss Elise. I also might be spotted by the cow feeder guys. Damn.

  I bit my lip and pulled the ragged fingernail the rest of the way off, flinging a drop of blood to the floor and trying not to get any on my clothes.

  Just as I rocked onto all fours to crawl out of my hidey hole, the door opened. “Leigh?” Elise hissed.

  “Present,” I whispered.

  She scurried through the door and pulled me to my feet. “I saw those guys and almost had a stroke,” she said. “They’re early. And it’s Saturday, too.”

  “They said something about going back to bed.” I dusted off my pants.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “They didn’t see you?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s get out of here before they come back,” she said.

  “Where are we going at this hour?”

  “To open the coffee shop. You’re new. I’m training you.” She winked and waved me outside. “No one has a way to confirm anything until Monday, not that they’ll ask.” She gave me a once-over. “Nice work. You’ll blend perfectly.”

  I followed her out into the thick summer air, curiosity burning a hole in my frontal lobe. “Why do you stay if you don’t believe?” I asked.