Dead Wrong

by Mariah Stewart

  Someday had come three years after they’d graduated from the University of Delaware. With heavy backing from Derek’s parents and an equally heavy reliance on Amanda’s well-trained eye, Crosby & England had done relatively well, well enough to support themselves and a little more. They’d finally accumulated a healthy bank account, thanks to Amanda’s shrewd eye. At a country auction just months earlier, she’d spotted a set of four cottage chairs that she strongly suspected might be the work of Samuel Campbell, an early-eighteenth-century furniture maker from western Pennsylvania who was just coming into vogue. She’d bought the painted chairs for an astounding eighty dollars—she’d expected the bidding to start at ten times that figure—and held on to them for six months, during which time she was able to confirm their origin. Then, as Campbell’s popularity hit its stride, she resold the chairs for a tidy $8,000 apiece. Thirty-two thousand lovely dollars. Money she’d planned to use to move the shop from its present location at the upper edges of the original village to a more central location closer to Main Street. Money to purchase more high-end stock . . .

  Amanda punched in Derek’s number on her cell phone.

  “Derek, you are so dead.” She hissed through clenched teeth at the record message prompt. “If you have any sense at all, you’ll stay in Italy, because the minute I see you, I am going to kill you.”

  “Excuse me?” a startled voice from behind asked.

  “Oh,” Amanda turned, equally startled. She hit the End Call button and slipped her phone into her pocket. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  The well-dressed middle-aged blond woman smiled absently, her eyes scanning the shop’s offerings.

  “Was there something in particular you were looking for?” Amanda moved the wooden box holding the goblet to a shelf under the counter.

  “I was wondering if you had any Weller pottery,” the woman said. “My friend bought a vase here a week or so ago and she said you might have some others.”

  “A tall green vase? Raised dogwood blossoms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Justine Rhodes?”

  “Yes, Justine.” The woman nodded. “She was showing me just yesterday what she’d bought from you.”

  “This is such a coincidence,” Amanda forced a bright note. “I was planning on calling Justine in the morning because I know she has the beginnings of a lovely collection, and I have some new items that just came in. I haven’t even unwrapped them yet, and I thought I’d give her first look. But since you’re already here, perhaps you’d like to see . . . ?”

  The woman beamed.

  It was a sure sale, Amanda knew. She’d sized up her customer well. There was no way this woman would leave the shop without purchasing most—if not all—of the new lot, if for no other reason than to be able to tell Justine about her fabulous find.

  Amanda lifted the first of the boxes she’d brought in from her car just hours earlier and began unwrapping the pottery. While not the most high-end of the potteries she carried, the Weller would bring a good price—maybe even a great price—since American art pottery had become increasingly popular over the years, and the pieces she’d managed to get her hands on were far from run-of-the-mill. But there’d still be a long way to go to make up for what Derek’s latest lack of judgment had cost them.

  Well, she sighed as she carefully sat a tall pale-green vase on the counter, she’d deal with Derek later. Right now she was going to do her best to start making up the deficit. One sale at a time.

  “This vase is really spectacular.” She slid her glasses on as she slipped into her best sales mode. “It’s signed by J. Green, one of Weller’s most sought-after artists. Now, note the lovely details. . . .”

  DEAD

  EVEN

  FINGERTIPS TAPPED LIGHTLY ON EITHER SIDE OF THE rim of the steering wheel, the quiet expression of annoyance favored by FBI Special Agent Miranda Cahill when faced with a situation over which she had no control. The current immovable object was the rental car that had buzzed along nicely from Natrona County Airport, just a short hop from Casper, Wyoming—where it had been picked up—to the spot where it had rolled unceremoniously to a stop some fifteen miles from Pine Tree Junction.

  At least that was where the last road sign had placed her, but that had been close to half an hour ago. She wondered if perhaps somehow she’d taken a wrong turn. Tough to do, she chided herself, when there had been so few turns to be taken.

  She turned the key in the ignition one more time, praying for a smooth start. Her prayers were answered with the clack-clack-clack of an engine that steadfastly refused to turn over. Battery, maybe. Or perhaps the starter. Either way, the Taurus was dead. And that meant that she would be walking the rest of the way to Linden, however far that might be, if she was going to get there today.

  Cursing, she got out of the car.

  “I should leave you unlocked, you know that?” She spoke aloud to the car, pausing with the key in her right hand. “Let’s see how you like being abandoned out here in the middle of nowhere, all alone. Defenseless. May you be pilfered and vandalized.”

  She locked it anyway, tossed her large brown tote bag over her shoulder, and set out in the direction she assumed she should be going. Hardly defenseless herself, she slipped her SIG Sauer into the holster that rode on her hip, just in case a mean-spirited rattlesnake or equally ornery cowboy crossed her path.

  While she walked along the narrow shoulder of the road, she fiddled with her phone, found the autodial number she wanted, and hit Send. When there was no answer, she dialed a second number, never missing a stride.

  Please leave a message for John Mancini. . . .

  “Shit,” she grumbled. “Voice mail. I hate voice mail.”

  She blew out a heavily agitated breath.

  “John, it’s Miranda Cahill. I’m currently hoofing it up what I believe is still Route 387, but since there are no signs out here in the middle of Nowhere Springs, Wyoming, that’s just a guess on my part. I’m due in Linden for the meeting in twenty minutes, but that looks way optimistic right now. I tried calling Aidan, but he didn’t pick up. If you or someone else could reach him, please let him know I’m going to be little late. If he’d like to come and pick me up, even better. I’ll be the one walking along wearing a tan suede jacket and a scowl. . . .”

  She ended the call, slipped the phone into her pocket, and hitched the bag a little higher. Her long legs ate up lengths of the road at a healthy clip despite the high-heeled boots, partly because her natural pace was quick, partly because the temperature was barely thirty degrees and certain to be dropping as the day began to fade. She hoped she’d reach her destination before that happened. If there was one thing she hated more than anything, it was the cold.

  “Jamaica,” she said under her breath. “Bahamas. Acapulco. Bermuda. The Keys . . .”

  She tried to mentally transport herself, but the wind began to pick up, blowing her dark hair around her head. She stopped, rummaged in her bag for a hair band, then pulled her hair back into a ponytail before moving on. She walked for nearly twenty minutes before the outline of a building appeared in the distance.

  “Please be Linden Springs.”

  Ten minutes later, she found the building to be a gas station attached to the small diner that was her destination. She walked across the parking lot, which was little more than one large pothole, and smiled through a grimy window at the man who sat behind an old metal desk on the other side of the glass.

  “Hi.” She opened the door and took a half step inside. “I don’t suppose you have a tow truck?”

  The old man at the desk shook his head, struck dumb, no doubt, at the sight of the tall, willowy beauty who’d appeared—literally—out of nowhere.

  “I was afraid of that.” She nodded and let the door swing closed behind her.

  She walked ten more steps and entered the diner, pausing momentarily to look around. There were only two customers. Fortunately, they were the two people she’d come to se
e.

  “Hey, Aidan,” she greeted fellow agent Aidan Shields with a pat on the back, then dropped her bag onto the floor before reaching out to hug his companion. “Mara, it’s good to see you.”

  “Good to see you, too.” Mara Douglas stood and embraced her friend. “I couldn’t believe it when Aidan said you were on your way out here. It must be something really important.”

  Mara’s eyes were shining with hope.

  “It is, but I’m afraid it’s not what you want to hear, honey.” Miranda pulled a chair over from a nearby table and sat down. “I’m sorry, Mara, I wish I could tell you that we’ve been able to confirm that your daughter and your ex-husband are part of the group out at Angel Springs, but they are not.”

  “But we—Aidan and I—have tracked them there. Jules is there, and he’s got Julianne with him.” Mara’s eyes widened. “We had a credible tip—Aidan, tell her. . . .”

  “We did have a credible tip.” Aidan nodded slowly. “But Mara, I told you that we weren’t sure how old that information was.”

  “But . . .”

  “Miranda, why don’t you tell us what you’ve heard?” Aidan covered one of Mara’s hands with his own.

  “Your ex, Jules, has contributed heavily to the True Revival movement, we do know this. He has, as I’m sure you know or you wouldn’t be here, signed over some bonds to Reverend Prescott within the past two months. But I’m afraid that neither Jules nor your daughter are with the movement here in Wyoming.”

  “How do you know?” Mara fought to control her emotions. “How can you be certain?”

  “All I can tell you at this time is that the Bureau has someone inside the movement. She has confirmed that they are no longer here. Unfortunately, she hasn’t been able to find out where they went when they left here, but she’s still working on that. She has asked that you and Aidan leave the area. The interest you’ve shown in the movement, the questions you’ve been asking of the members when they come into town . . . it’s been noticed. Our agent is afraid you’ll call unnecessary attention to the group and, sooner or later, to her.”

  Mara looked at her blankly.

  “In other words, back off, because we could jeopardize the life of our agent.” Aidan summed it up.

  “That’s exactly right.” Miranda nodded. “I’m sorry, Mara, I know how hard this has been for you. . . .”

  “No. No, you do not.” Mara pushed herself away from the table slowly. “With all due respect, Miranda, you have no idea how hard this has been. If you’ll excuse me for a minute . . .”

  When Mara passed through the door to the rest room, Aidan turned to Miranda and said, “Who’s inside?”

  “Genna Snow.”

  “The boss sent his wife?” Aidan’s brows lifted in surprise.

  “Who better to look into a quasi-religious movement led by a bunch of self-appointed apostles who seem to be attracting a lot of single parents with adolescent children?” Both agents knew Genna Snow’s story. As a child, she’d been abused by a pedophile who masqueraded as a man of the cloth. Twenty years later, he’d been released from prison and tracked her down. Genna took him down with one shot through the heart.

  “Genna’s found Jules and Julianne?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?” Miranda raised one eyebrow. “Could you know and not tell Mara what she wants to hear?”

  Aidan mulled the question over.

  “I knew as soon as I got the call that you were on your way, that we must be very close this time.”

  “Closer than you know, pal.” Miranda leaned back in her chair and watched his face.

  He sighed deeply.

  “It’s been more than seven years since Mara’s ex-husband abducted their daughter and disappeared with her. It’s ripped her apart. It’s a rare night that she doesn’t awake in a sweat, and a rare day that she manages to get through without tears. Mara will not stop searching for Julianne until she finds her. I promised I’d follow every lead with her, do whatever it took to find her daughter and bring her home. I didn’t figure on having to withhold information from her.”

  “How do you feel about outright lying to her? If she asks you point-blank if you believe that Julianne is not in the compound, what will you say?”

  “I don’t like the idea of lying to her. I hope it doesn’t come to that. If she knew for a certainty that Julianne was in there, she’d walk right into the compound herself.”

  “That is precisely what we’re afraid of,” Miranda said softly even as she smiled gently at Mara’s approach.

  “Hungry?” Miranda asked as Mara sat back down.

  “Not really.” She shrugged.

  “Well, I am ravenous.” Miranda caught the eye of the lone waitress. “As long as we’re here, we might as well eat. Then, if it’s okay with you, I’ll hitch a ride to the airport with you.”

  “We’ll need to check on a flight, I suppose,” Mara said, grim defeat drawing down the corners of her mouth.

  “Taken care of,” Miranda patted her bag. “Compliments of the federal government.”

  “You knew we’d leave with you?” Mara asked suspiciously. Her sister was a profiler with the FBI, and Mara knew sometimes things weren’t exactly as they seemed.

  “I picked them up when I made my own flight arrangements.” Miranda shrugged nonchalantly as she skimmed over the menu the waitress had handed her. “I figured you’d be wanting to go back East. I mean, why waste precious vacation time on a dead lead, when a live one might pop up later on?”

  Mara pondered the remark. It did make sense. . . .

  “Okay, if you’re sure.” Mara turned to Aidan. “You’re sure, right? That it’s the right thing to do? You’re convinced that Julianne is not with the True Revival?”

  “I am absolutely convinced it’s the right thing to do,” he told her solemnly. “Miranda wouldn’t have come all this way to turn us in the wrong direction.”

  “Okay,” Mara sighed, shaking her head slowly. “You know, I felt so sure this time. . . .”

  “I know, baby.” Aidan rubbed her shoulders. “Maybe next time.”

  “It’s been maybe next time for seven years now,” she said sadly.

  Aidan looked at Miranda through guilty eyes and appeared about to say something when Miranda’s phone began to ring.

  “Cahill.”

  “Cahill, it’s John. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I just got out of a meeting and heard your message.” John Mancini, head of a special crimes unit within the FBI, sounded uncharacteristically frazzled. “Are you still—what was the phrase you used—hoofing it down Route 387?”

  “No, I’m sitting in the Ye Old Bumfuck Falls Café with Aidan and Mara, about to order lunch. Then, because my car rolled over and died about six miles back, I’ll be getting a ride to the airport with them. You might want to have someone pick up the car and return it, by the way. It’s charged to the Bureau.”

  “She’s agreed to leave?”

  “Yes. Not a problem.” Miranda studied the chipped polish on one of her fingernails.

  “Have you told Shields the truth?”

  “I didn’t have to.”

  “Good. I take it, then, that his instincts are still right on?”

  “They are.” She rested the phone on her shoulder and motioned to Aidan to order her a roast beef sandwich by pointing to the specials board. The sandwich was the only special.

  “Try not to miss your flight, Cahill. You need to be in Fleming, Pennsylvania, by noon tomorrow.”

  “What’s in Fleming?”

  “An old friend of yours was just released from prison.”

  “Old friend of mine?” She frowned.

  “Archer Lowell. Ring a bell?”

  “Sure. The Amanda Crosby stalker. What’s he up to?”

  “That’s what you’re going to find out. . . .”

  This book contains excerpts from the forthcoming editions of Dead Certain and Dead Even by Mariah Stewart. These excerpts have been set for this edition onl
y and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming editions.

  Dead Wrong is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Ballantine Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2004 by Marti Robb

  Excerpts from Dead Certain and Dead Even by Mariah Stewart copyright © 2004 by Marti Robb

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

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  eISBN 0-345-47837-1

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