Intimate Strangers

by Rebecca York

  Then he reminded himself he’d stamped out of her house because he didn’t know how she’d acquired the damn puzzle box.

  But that was the least of his worries now. He was after big game—Oliver Garrison. It was Garrison’s reaction he wanted.

  Too bad he hadn’t arranged to fake his own death, Mark thought as he put the top back on the jar of adhesive and packed up his equipment. If he’d died, then Randall’s reappearance in Perry’s Cove would be all the more spectacular. But he had the feeling that the effect would be good enough as it was.

  He leaned closer to the mirror, smoothing out a few spots where the mask was wrinkled. Then he turned and unlocked the door and looked out into the parking lot. The other car was still at the pump, so he ducked his head and walked with crisp steps back to his car, stowed the suitcase and started the engine.

  The brisk walk cost him. The fight earlier in the evening was making him stiff. Probably he should be back in his room with a couple of ice packs.

  But he wasn’t focused on his bruised body. A feeling of excitement clawed at the inside of his chest as he drove to the antique mall and pulled up across from the back door. The woman’s car had not returned, he noted.

  Climbing out of his vehicle, he strode to the window where he’d watched the couple. The light was still on, and he could see Garrison pacing back and forth, his gaze fixed on the phone. Apparently, he was waiting for news from his girlfriend. They were up to something, and it looked as if there had been a hitch in their plans. For example, what if they’d been storing a bunch of boxes in an empty house, and someone had come to investigate their cache?

  Was that what had happened? Did the caller know it was Mark Ramsey? He couldn’t discount that theory, Mark decided as he watched the antique dealer’s jittery behavior.

  Garrison was acting like a man in trouble, and Mark was determined to make sure more was on the way. With a feeling of satisfaction, he pulled on another pair of rubber gloves, and hurried to the back door. It was locked, but he remembered the mechanism wasn’t state-of-the-art. Apparently, that hadn’t changed. The lock picks were still in his pocket, and he used them with more dexterity than he’d employed earlier in the evening. The old burglars in the pen would be proud of him, he thought as he stepped into the building and quietly closed the door behind him. After waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he took a few more steps into the loading-dock area. Large pieces of furniture loomed around him in the dim light, and he stationed himself behind a large German hutch called a shrank, if he remembered correctly.

  When he heard and saw nothing, he stepped around the shrank and through a door into the back area of the gallery proper. His pulse was pounding now, and he felt a tiny trickle of doubt work its way into his mind. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. What if Garrison called the cops?

  Mike Randall would have time to get away, he assured himself, unless someone from the sheriff’s department was cruising around the area. Looking for kids having sex in the parking lot? That was what Garrison had told him Hammer had come to talk about. But Mark was thinking now it was a lie.

  Before he changed his mind, he took a couple of steps through the doorway into the storage area at the back of the gallery. He had been here with Veronica many times, and he knew the general layout of the large room.

  First he found a small, decorative metal box and set it on the table beside him. Then he quietly unscrewed the two overhead lightbulbs so that they couldn’t come on. Next he found a lamp that was sitting on a low chest. After screwing in one of the bulbs from the overhead fixture, he set the light on the table beside the metal box. Then he plugged the cord into a floor receptacle and gave the lamp a quick test. It worked.

  A glance over his shoulder toward the loading dock assured him that he had a clear escape route. Satisfied with his preparations, he looked around for something that would make a fairly loud noise, then deliberately kicked his foot against a set of old fireplace implements. They gave out a dramatic rattling sound as the poker clanked against the shovel, and he ducked around the side of a large chest on chest, waiting with his heart in his throat for Oliver to come and investigate.

  He didn’t have long to stand there in the shadows.

  “Is that you?” Garrison called out. “I didn’t think you were coming back so soon.”

  A sardonic smile flickered over Mark’s lips. “It depends on who and when you mean,” he answered, keeping his tone conversational and making an effort to speak like the old Mike Randall. He could do it for short periods of time, but anything longer would be a strain on his vocal cords.

  “Who’s there? Show yourself,” Oliver demanded, but his voice had taken on a quavery quality that spoiled any attempt at forcefulness. He was in the doorway now, and he reached to flip on the light switch. The action had no effect, and he cursed.

  “Nothing to worry about. It’s just an old friend come for a visit,” Mark answered, then took a step forward and switched on the lamp beside him so that he was standing in a small pool of illumination.

  “No!” Garrison breathed. “What do you want?”

  “Information.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation before the antique dealer said, “I don’t have to tell you a damn thing.”

  “You sound like you have something to hide.”

  “You shouldn’t have come back here.”

  “You knew I would, didn’t you?”

  “I hoped you’d be smart enough to stay away.” As Garrison spoke, he lifted the hand that had been pressed against his side, and Mark saw he was holding a very nasty-looking handgun.

  Chapter Ten

  His eyes riveted to the gun, Mark had time to mutter, “Aw hell,” as he ducked behind the chest on chest. He’d always thought of Garrison as a wimp. Apparently the man had stiffened his backbone in the years since Veronica Randall’s husband had left Perry’s Cove in handcuffs.

  Still, Garrison’s reflexes weren’t all that great. He fired seconds too late, splintering the wooden chest several inches from Mark’s head.

  Mark forced a laugh. “You’re destroying a priceless antique,” he shouted.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Garrison shouted back.

  “What do you think, you old goat? I’m trying to find out who set me up. Was it you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Garrison said, but the quaver in his voice did nothing to make his protest sound legitimate. “I’m going to call the police,” he added.

  “You do that. What are you going to get me on? You’re the one with the gun.”

  “I’m shooting at an intruder.”

  “Which doesn’t give you a license to murder, if I remember my jailhouse law studies correctly.”

  As he finished speaking, he tossed a metal vase across the floor. While Garrison was shooting at it, he ducked out the back door, profoundly glad that he’d parked close to the building this time. He was into his car and out of the parking lot in a flash. Looking back, he was glad to see that Garrison hadn’t come out of the building.

  As he drove with his right hand on the wheel, he reached up with his left and worked at the mask, loosening the glue so he could pull the rubber away from his face. He resisted the impulse to rip the damn thing off. It was too expensive to ruin after one wearing, although he was wondering how he was going to use it again, considering the outcome of this little episode.

  When he realized his foot was pressed to the accelerator, he eased up. All he needed was to be caught speeding with his Halloween mask half off or on the seat beside him.

  Now that he was out of the building, it was pretty clear that he never should have tried the mask stunt. He’d come to Perry’s Cove with a disguise and a half-baked plan, only to find that he was no covert investigator. Probably he’d read too many Spenser for Hire novels, where Spenser went around a town stirring up trouble until people attacked him and he beat the crap out of them. It worked in the novels, but Mark wasn’t so sure of its merits in real life.<
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  He sighed as he headed back to the East Point Lodge, wondering if he’d magically come up with any insights overnight. On the way, he detoured past Molly’s house again. The lights were off, and it was all he could do to keep from knocking on the door, waking her up and throwing himself on her mercy. He’d come to town with the burning desire to avenge himself on the bastard or bastards who had killed his wife and pinned the murder on him. As he drove through the night, he wondered if that was a goal worth pursuing. Maybe it was better to go on with his life and grab what happiness he could. With Molly Dumont.

  A tide of longing seized him. At that moment he wanted her more than he’d wanted anything in his life. But he gritted his teeth and pushed the desire out of his mind. He had come back to Perry’s Cove with a purpose and he wasn’t going to quit in a moment of personal weakness.

  Besides, tonight wasn’t a total loss. In the process of almost getting himself killed, he’d learned something important. Oliver Garrison was afraid of Mike Randall, afraid enough to pull out a gun and shoot at him. He might have brought the gun out because he thought that a burglar had broken into the gallery. But he’d seen Mike, spoken to him. He knew who he was and still he had tried to kill him. That was pretty significant. And Mark couldn’t simply walk away.

  OLIVER’S HANDS were shaking as he returned to his office and slipped the gun back into the desk drawer where he kept it. From another drawer, he took out a bottle of brandy. Usually, he enjoyed the little ritual of pouring an inch of the golden liquid into an antique brandy snifter.

  Tonight he tipped the bottle up and took a swig, welcoming the burning sensation in his throat. He leaned back in the comfortable desk chair, feeling the beating of his heart as he let the alcohol work its way into his system.

  He knew that he was stalling, but he didn’t give a damn. Since the murder conviction had been overturned, he’d been waiting for Mike Randall to show up, and now it had happened. Not the way he’d expected. Somehow he’d pictured the man strolling into the gallery during the day as if he owned the place. But, after all, it had been Randall’s privilege to choose his time and place.

  Oliver sighed. He didn’t know what Randall knew or what he suspected. Probably it was impossible for the sucker to figure out the truth on his own. He’d need help, and Oliver was going to make sure he didn’t get it.

  He took another swig of brandy. This time it was possible to appreciate the expensive flavor. He had always liked fine things. Good food and drink. Beautiful furniture. Expensive knickknacks.

  It would be a shame if he were forced to give them up if he had to get out of Perry’s Cove in a hurry. All that went through his mind as he sat sipping brandy. The drink calmed him, and he began thinking about how to put the brief encounter in the best possible light. He hadn’t exactly kept his cool. Shooting at the guy hadn’t been the best idea in the world, but he’d been betting that Randall wouldn’t get a chance to tell his side of the story.

  When he finally felt in control of his emotions, he reached for the phone and dialed a familiar number.

  “Hello, it’s me,” he said after he heard the receiver picked up on the other end of the line.

  “Oliver?” a voice asked. Then, in response to his tone of voice, “What’s wrong?”

  “I just had a run-in with Mike Randall,” he said, knowing he was delivering a bombshell.

  “When? What happened?”

  “He showed up at the gallery a few minutes ago.”

  “You mean after midnight?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I believe he was trying to create a dramatic effect. He unscrewed a couple of lightbulbs and arranged to have himself standing in a circle of light from a lamp.”

  There was silence on the other end. When the voice finally spoke again, it was angry. “So first he sent that guy Mark Ramsey. Now he’s here, too, running around town, looking for trouble.”

  “That’s right. And with your connections, you have an excellent opportunity to locate him.”

  Oliver endured several moments of invective, then calmly said, “If you can’t find him, perhaps you can take a different approach.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like cut off his sources of help. Mark Ramsey is going around with Molly Dumont. They were at the Thompson place earlier today. And Ramsey came back tonight to snoop around.”

  The man on the other end of the line cursed. “Why wasn’t I informed of that?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “You think Dumont knows something about our plans?”

  “How could she?” Oliver snapped. But he was starting to wonder. Somehow, Molly was in the middle of this.

  “Get her to tell you what’s going on. Or if you don’t want to do it yourself, use those guys I have on retainer. I’m tired, and I’m going to sleep,” he lied.

  He slammed the receiver into the cradle. No one was going to sleep tonight.

  MARK CIRCLED around town, making sure he wasn’t being followed before going back to the East Point Lodge. He was heading toward the door to his unit when the cell phone in his pocket rang, making him miss a step.

  He stopped in his tracks, willing himself to steadiness. Who the hell could it possibly be? Had Oliver figured out who he was and gotten his number?

  Impossible, he told himself. There was no way the antique dealer could figure out that Mark Ramsey and Mike Randall were one and the same. Still, when the phone rang again, goose bumps popped up along his arms.

  It had to be a wrong number, he told himself. Even as the thought formed, he canceled it. The Light Street Foundation knew how to reach him. But why would they be calling him in the middle of the night? That left only one possibility, he thought as the phone jarred his nerves again. Pulling it out of his pocket, he pressed the Talk button.

  “Hello?”

  “Mark, thank God!”

  “Molly, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I heard a noise outside. There’s someone prowling around the house.”

  “Are the doors and windows locked?” he asked, already sprinting back toward the car.

  “The doors and the downstairs windows.”

  “I’m minutes from your house,” he said, keeping his voice calm as he climbed into the car and started the engine. “Where are you?”

  “In the bedroom.”

  “Lock the door. And lock the window.”

  “Okay.”

  He heard her suck in a strangled breath. Then she screamed.

  “Molly,” he called into the phone. “Molly!” But she didn’t answer. A wave of pure primal panic grabbed him by the throat as he pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

  MOLLY COULD HEAR Mark calling her name, and she wanted desperately to answer him. But she had already dropped the phone when the bedroom door came flying open. She had only seconds to react.

  Lips pressed together, she threw herself to the floor on the other side of the bed, thankful that she hadn’t turned on the light. That was the good news. The bad news was that she had already changed into her nightgown, and she felt so naked and defenseless under the thin cotton fabric that she wanted to sob and curl into a ball. Only, she knew both of those reactions would likely be fatal.

  So she willed herself to steadiness as she crouched on the floor, trying to figure out what to do. Over the blood roaring in her ears, she could hear the sound of someone breathing heavily. The raspy breath brought a mental picture of a barrel-chested man standing on the other side of the room, blocking the doorway. A big man.

  Her hands squeezed so tightly that she felt her nails digging into the flesh of her palms.

  Mark had said he was on the way. He had said it wouldn’t be long. Her job was to stay alive. But how, if this guy had come to kill her? She wondered if he had a gun and if he even knew she was hiding in this room.

  Keeping her own breath shallow, she tried to figure out what to do. Mentally, she pictured the floor in the area where she crouched. She’
d left her sandals beside the bed, but they’d hardly do as a weapon.

  Then she remembered that she’d been hemming a pair of slacks and she hadn’t put away her sewing box.

  IF A COP stopped him, he’d keep going and lead the guy to Molly’s house, Mark thought as he pressed the accelerator to the floor. Of course, if the cop was either Hammer or Daniels, that might not be such a great idea.

  He slowed to take a corner, then barreled down Molly’s street. Pulling into her driveway, he cut the engine and leaped out of the car. As he charged toward the kitchen door, he saw that it was open, and he swore. She was right. Somebody was here—unless she had laid a trap for him.

  He didn’t want to think that could be true. She’d sounded panicked when she’d called. But after his encounter with Oliver, it was impossible to discount the possibility. He tried to wipe his suspicions out of his mind. Still, he slowed his pace, moving cautiously through the door and into the kitchen. The room was empty. He stood very still, listening. For endless seconds he detected nothing. Then, from the second floor, he heard footsteps crossing the floor. Footsteps that were much too heavy for a small woman like Molly. Footsteps that sounded like a predator on the prowl.

  He cursed under his breath, repressing the urge to call out her name as he headed for the stairs. She was in trouble up there, he had no doubt of that now.

  Again, he had to stifle his natural impulse to pound up the steps. Instead, he moved cautiously upward, his body bent to make himself less of a target in case someone was waiting for him there.

  MOLLY WAS RUMMAGING inside her sewing box for her scissors when she heard the man coming toward her.

  Her fingers closed around the twin handles just as the intruder reached her side of the bed and bent to grab her, his hands landing on the straps of her gown.

  She thrust her arms up, warding off the attack with her left hand while she jabbed at him with the scissors. It connected with some part of his midsection, and she heard him make a low, dangerous sound.