Two men sat on a bench in front of the tire store watching the street. They spared Jack a glance as he approached, but neither seemed to recognize him. One gave a brief nod while the other looked away quickly as if he didn’t want to see too much. Jack understood. Even in a town as small as Pine Lake, there were areas where it was best to turn a blind eye.
Keeping watch on the street behind him, he walked down the alley until he could get a better view of the truck. Then he took out his phone, snapped a shot of the license plate and texted the image to one of his contacts at the Houston Police Department. He heard back in a matter of minutes: Truck registered to Marc Waller, 212 Locust Avenue, Pine Lake, Texas.
The name wasn’t lost on Jack. The connections were becoming a little too entangled to be coincidental. Strange that Tommy Driscoll hadn’t recognized Waller’s truck from the description. But to give him the benefit of the doubt, no county sheriff could be aware of every vehicle in his jurisdiction.
Still, Jack had to wonder why Waller had been driving so recklessly through the middle of town on the morning after his girlfriend’s body had been discovered and even more curious, why he had seemed hell-bent on frightening Olive. Maybe anyone in that crosswalk would have had the same close call or maybe Olive was right and it was a matter of intimidation. But Waller was no school kid and Jack was starting to have a very bad feeling. Something was going on in Pine Lake. A war, Tommy had called it. Somehow Olive was caught in the middle whether she realized it or not.
Jack put away his phone and approached the truck with caution, checking over his shoulder once again before stepping up to the side window. The cab was empty and the doors locked. His first thought was that the driver had disappeared behind the wooden fence that separated the alley from the rear of another dilapidated building. He opened the gate and had a quick look around, and then as he came back through, he saw that the side door of the abandoned building stood slightly ajar.
Flattening himself against the crumbling brick wall, he pushed open the door just enough to get a glimpse inside. Lit only by anemic sunbeams that filtered in through the dusty windows, the interior lay in deep shadows. He listened for a moment and then slipped inside, pausing at the threshold to take stock.
At one time, the building must have been a renovation project, but that, too, had been abandoned. He could see the skeletal outline of a two-story scaffold and the ragged curtains of poly that had sectioned off the various stages of work. Beer bottles, cigarette butts and pen casings littered the floor. An old mattress had been shoved up against one wall, a battered sofa against another. The musty scent of time and neglect hung thick in the air, along with the darker notes of urine and rodent infestation.
Unease trickled down Jack’s spine. This was not a good place. The building had been derelict even when he’d lived in Pine Lake. It had always been known as a trouble spot despite its proximity to downtown. He remembered rumors of dark goings-on, everything from drug-fueled parties to satanic rituals. Once in middle school, he and Nathan and Tommy had crawled through a back window to explore, climbing to the roof from the precarious second-floor access and then descending all the way down into the basement, a cavernous place of looming shadows and glowing eyes. They’d been oblivious to the homeless man who had been living in the building until he’d rushed from a corner howling like a dog. Jack could only remember one other time when he’d been so frightened—the first day he’d been subjected to Sheriff Brannigan’s vicious style of interrogation.
His senses on high alert, he moved about the dingy space, searching in corners and behind the plastic dividers. When he got to the stairs, he drew up short as his gaze traveled up the steps and through the shadows to the second-floor landing. Someone was up there. He could hear a muted voice—someone on a cell phone perhaps—but he was too far away to pick up the one-sided conversation.
Jack told himself whatever was going on inside that building was none of his business. He should leave now before he was spotted. He hadn’t come to Pine Lake to involve himself in an active murder investigation and he sure as hell had no intention of breaking up a drug deal. His only interest in the driver of that black truck was the close call Olive had had with him that morning. Jack wouldn’t mind having a long talk with Marc Waller about that incident.
But like it or not, Jack was involved. He’d been involved ever since he’d found Jamie Butaud’s body. Maybe even earlier than that, when he’d taken that first call from Nathan Bolt. He’d been lured back to Pine Lake with the bait of the past, but the present-day circumstances had ensnared him because some of the players were the same. He didn’t know if there was a connection between the two murders, but he did know that he would always be haunted by the lies surrounding Anna’s death if he didn’t do everything he could to put those lingering questions and suspicions to rest.
Halfway up the stairs, he froze again. The voice was getting louder, angrier. He turned an ear to the sound as he searched the shadows on the landing and then pivoted to scour the area below him. He heard nothing else. No misplaced footfalls or creaking doors, but a light breeze drifted up the stairs and feathered along his nape. Someone had come into the building and now Jack had been caught between the newcomer and the person somewhere on the second floor.
He had no choice but to abandon caution, sprint up the stairs and dart into one of the empty rooms. But as he reached the stop step, a door flew open and he found himself face to face with a man he assumed was Marc Waller. Jack assessed him in a glance. He looked just shy of six feet, thin to the point of emaciation with shoulder-length hair and a scraggly beard. More important, he was armed and Jack wasn’t.
Footsteps pounded on the stairs and Jack reacted on instinct. He lunged at the man in the doorway, allowing the momentum of the impact to carry them back into the murky room. Waller’s gun went flying and as he dove for the weapon, Jack tackled him. They crashed to the floor, rolling and punching and cursing hard.
As Jack straddled his opponent, he seemed to have the upper hand. He was larger and more physically fit, but Waller was a scrapper. He bucked and kicked and thrashed about until it seemed to Jack the scrawny man had superhuman strength. Still, Jack would have eventually prevailed if not for the blow to the back of his head.
Dazed, he slumped to the floor as pain exploded behind his eyeballs. He tried to clear his vision as he lashed out at his new assailant. Before he could shake off a wave of dizziness, he was pinned facedown and a moment later, he felt a prick at the base of his neck.
When he was finally released, he tried to scramble to his feet, but the room spun out of control and he discovered a sudden heaviness in his limbs. The floor pitched and he collapsed, rolling to his back to stare up at the rotating ceiling. After a moment, a strange euphoria seeped through his veins, along with a weighted lethargy. Shadows moved about the dingy room, but they didn’t concern him. The voices that came to him were dreamlike and distorted. We can’t kill him. His people will come looking for him and those guys don’t mess around.
Someone knelt and peered down at him. He saw a floating star in the darkness and tried to catch it. Then he drifted away and saw nothing at all.
Chapter Six
“Jack, can you hear me? You need to wake up now. Open your eyes, please.”
The brisk voice was annoyingly persuasive, but Jack didn’t want to wake up. A jackhammer was going off in his head and he could taste vomit at the back of his throat. Best to just drift back into the darkness. But that voice niggled. Beneath the schoolteacher calm was an edge of fear that nudged him out of his lethargy. He tunneled his way through a thick curtain of cobwebs and opened his eyes to a blurry world.
Someone hovered over him. He struggled to get up but a firm hand on his shoulder pressed him back down. “Take it easy. You’ll be okay.”
He groaned and put an arm over his eyes. “Where am I?”
“You’re h
ome.”
“I’m in Houston?”
The voice hesitated. “No, Jack. You’re in your uncle’s cabin on Pine Lake. You have a bump on the back of your head. Do you remember falling?”
He tried to swallow past all the cotton in his mouth. “No.”
“What about the scrapes on your knuckles and the bruise on your cheek? Did you get into a fight?”
“Not that I recall.”
Another pause. “Do you know who I am?”
“Olive Belmont.”
“Yes, that’s right.” She sounded relieved.
He blinked to bring her into focus, vectoring in on the freckles across her nose. Her smile was soothing, but her blue eyes looked worried. He wanted to reassure her that he was fine, but the throbbing in his head wouldn’t give him any peace.
He pressed fingertips into his temples. “What are you doing here?”
“Nathan called when he found you.”
Jack glanced up. “Found me where?”
“Here in the cabin. He drove out to see you and noticed that the front door was open. He thought there might have been a break-in so he came inside to have a look around. He found you here on the couch. When he had trouble rousing you, he called me.”
“Why you?”
She shrugged. “Nathan’s always been useless in medical crises. He may be older, but I’m the one who had to deal with the blood. Not literally,” she quickly added. “You’re not bleeding, thank goodness.”
“He was always a little squeamish,” Jack agreed.
She gave a little chuckle. “See? It’s all coming back. Now do you remember how you got all those bumps and bruises?”
“That’s still a blank.”
“Well, let’s take it one step at a time. What’s the last thing that you do remember?”
He answered automatically. “I saw you outside the coffee shop this morning. You had on a white dress and a black truck almost ran you down. Then you left for work and I went to see Tommy Driscoll.”
“Jack.” She leaned closer, staring deeply into his eyes. “What day is this?”
He frowned at the question. “It’s Tuesday. I drove up from Houston late yesterday.”
“It’s Wednesday,” she corrected. “A little after four o’clock in the afternoon. The events you cited happened yesterday morning. Are you telling me you don’t remember anything since then?”
A thrill of alarm chased up his spine, along with a dark premonition that something bad had happened during his blackout. He held out his right hand, studying the raw skin on his knuckles. Now he knew how Olive felt after sleepwalking. Losing a chunk of time was terrifying.
He massaged his temples even harder, as if he could somehow resuscitate his memory. “I drove back into town for lunch. I ate at a place on Main Street and then I went by Nathan’s office. As I was leaving, I saw the black truck that almost hit you. I followed it, I think.”
His revelation seemed to take her aback. “Why would you do that?”
“I wanted to have a word with the driver.”
“A word?” She bit her lip in consternation. “Did you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t remember a confrontation?”
“No.”
“Where did you go when you followed the truck?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
Apprehension had slipped back into her voice. “Think about it for a minute. Do you remember a street name?”
“Commerce.”
“Nathan’s building is on Commerce. You already said you went by his office. Think harder. Where did you go after you left the law firm?”
“I just remember driving.”
Olive looked more anxious by the moment. Jack was getting a little concerned himself. The nausea and memory loss could be symptoms of a concussion, but he didn’t think so. The last twenty-four hours had been stolen by something far more insidious than a bump on his head.
She propped an arm on the back of the sofa and the other on the seat as she leaned into him, searching his face. A subtle floral fragrance emanated from her presence. Something lighter than perfume. Shampoo or a body wash, he thought. Odd that he could be so hazy about everything else and yet still be able to focus in on Olive Belmont’s scent. Not to mention the vibrant blue of her eyes and the lush copper of her hair, which spilled over her shoulders and curtained her cheeks. He wanted to reach up and tangle his fingers in those thick tresses, pull her down to him for another kiss. If he closed his eyes he could still remember the taste of her on his lips—
“Jack.” She touched his shoulder lightly. “You seem to be drifting. Stay with me, okay?”
“Yeah, doing my best.” With an effort, he pushed himself up and swung his legs off the couch, sitting for a moment with his head in his hands as the room swam around him.
“We should get you to the emergency room. The disorientation and memory loss could be signs of concussion.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s best to let a doctor make that determination. Head injuries shouldn’t be ignored,” she insisted. “You’ll need tests and several hours of monitoring. Can you walk?”
“I don’t need to go to the hospital. I’ll be fine.”
“How can you say that when you were apparently unconscious for over twenty-four hours?”
“More like passed out.”
She said in disbelief, “You were drunk?”
“Drugged would be my guess,” a voice said from the entrance.
Jack lifted his head from his hands and glanced toward the door where a man stood silhouetted on the threshold. Olive didn’t seem at all surprised by her cousin’s appearance, leaving Jack to conclude that Nathan Bolt had been hovering right outside the door all along.
As he came inside to join them, Jack gave the attorney a quick appraisal. Unlike Tommy Driscoll, who had softened over the years, Nathan Bolt had lost the extra weight that had stubbornly clung to him all through high school. He was trim and well-dressed with a hairstyle and round glasses that made him look both clever and earnest, especially with his loosened tie and rolled-up shirtsleeves. Jack didn’t buy the Boy Scout image. He didn’t trust Nathan Bolt any more than he had faith in Tommy Driscoll. Not that he cared all that much, but he couldn’t help wondering what had caused their falling out. The lies they’d told after Anna’s death? The natural animosity between a cop and a defense attorney? A disagreement over turf?
“Hello, Jack.”
“Nathan.”
“Drugged?” Olive repeated in disbelief. “Who would do such a thing?”
Nathan sat down in a chair across from the couch. He seemed perfectly at home in Leon’s cabin and Jack wondered again about the discussion that had been referenced during their first phone call. According to Nathan, contacting Jack had been Leon’s idea. No way to prove that now, of course.
“You said you followed a black truck,” Nathan said. “My guess is, you saw something you shouldn’t have.”
“Like what?” Olive demanded.
“Don’t be so naïve, cousin. You know better than anyone what’s happening in this town. You see it at school before it filters down to the rest of us.”
“You think Jack stumbled onto a drug deal?”
Nathan shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“That’s terrifying! But if they knocked him on the head and drugged him, how did he get home?”
“That’s a very good question.” Nathan’s gaze moved from Olive to Jack. “You still look pretty out of it so I doubt you were in any condition to drive. Someone must have brought you here and dumped you on the couch. Your car is in the driveway.”
Jack tried to summon even a glimmer of that trip home. Nothing. His mind was a complete blank.
“Tell me more about this black truck,” Nathan said.
“The driver almost ran Olive down this—yesterday morning.”
“That’s being a little dramatic,” she said. “I stepped off the curb and the truck came a little too close for comfort. Luckily, Jack was there to pull me back.”
“That is lucky,” Nathan agreed. “Are you saying you think it was deliberate?”
“No, of course not. It was probably just a student trying to intimidate me.” She glanced at Jack. “We’ve already been through this.”
“Yes, but I’m not as convinced as you,” he said.
“Nor should you be,” Nathan agreed. “Marc Waller drives a black truck.”
Something flashed in Jack’s memory, a flickering image of a lanky man that was there one moment and gone the next. He put a hand to the back of his head, locating the knot with a wince. “New with a custom paint job?”
“Expensive custom paint job,” Nathan said. “He came by the office a few weeks ago to show it off to Jamie. When she wouldn’t leave with him, he lost his temper and created a scene. We ended up calling the police.”
“What does this guy look like?” Jack asked.
“Thin, twitchy, unkempt. Has kind of a feral look in his eyes.”
Olive turned to Jack with an anxious appraisal. “Do you remember seeing him?”
The image flickered again, along with a fleeting memory of muted voices, but Jack shook his head. “I can’t place him. Is there any reason he’d want to hurt you?”
“Of course not,” she insisted. “I barely know the man.”
“Actually,” Nathan said slowly, “there might be.”
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