Whisper a Warning

by Christine Bush

  There was one fire truck remaining, as a precaution against any sudden recombustion at the fire site. Wisps of smoke still meandered upward from somewhere within the rubble. Along the driveway, the grass had turned to mud from the fire hoses and black-booted feet of the firemen.

  Two police cars and a black van were parked by the door. Officers and investigators were already climbing through the blackened beams.

  When they stepped from the car, Detective Dunn came to greet them.

  “Terrible thing, fire,” he said, clearing his throat as he approached. “Not much doubt it was arson.”

  “But why, why?” Willow said softly.

  “It’s going to take some figuring to get the lowdown on this one, Miss Blake. It’s a strange thing . . . preliminary investigation seems to indicate that the floorboards were all torn up on the first floor before the fire was started, for some strange reason. Nails were found piled in one spot, remains of boards in another. Any ideas about that?”

  “Why would somebody tear up the floorboards? This is awful.” She swallowed hard. “Where did you find the Burdetts?”

  The detective squinted and looked at her strangely. “Bodies were found in the basement. Looks like they were shot in the back of the head, execution style.”

  Willow felt her eyes swimming with tears. Rockford tightened his arm around her, and she absorbed his strength.

  Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. “You’ve got to find that Charley Morse. He’s a part of this. You’ve got to find him.”

  The detective shook his head. “No ma’am, I don’t have to find him. I already found him, but he doesn’t have any answers. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The bodies in the basement. . . they’re not the Burdetts. One is Charley Morse, and another is a local man named Joe Johnson.”

  Willow swallowed hard.

  Charley Morse and the man from the diner? She thought she was going to be sick.

  “But where are the Burdetts?” She cried in frustration.

  “That’s what I want to know, young lady,” the now stern-faced detective replied. “They’ve disappeared from their house, supposedly with half a million dollars. Then the place is burned down, and two bodies were found. This changes everything. We’ve put out another APB for them, only this time it’s for suspicion of murder.”

  For the first time in her life, Willow Blake was speechless.

  Chapter Seventeen

  They had returned to Willow’s cottage, still reeling from the news. Willow was seething with indignation. Suspicion of murder? The Burdetts?

  Rockford just shook his head. “Give it time, Willow. They’ll figure this thing out.”

  “Right,” snarled Willow. “We’re seeing firsthand how efficient and clever those police are. We have to have a plan.”

  “The only plan I have right now is to kiss you.” He pulled her quickly into his arms, covering her mouth with his.

  She drew in her breath harshly, her body stiffening as his lips touched hers. But she didn’t pull away. She couldn’t.

  She could feel something like an electric current passing through her, leaving her feeling weak and wobbly-legged. Still stiff, she leaned against him, trying to understand the war that was raging inside of her.

  He felt so good. His strong arms were wrapped securely around her, not binding her, but leaving no doubt about his feelings. His mouth was gentle upon hers, but insistent. It felt so right, so safe.

  And yet, voices in her head were screaming at her to pull away, to come to her senses, to reinforce the emotional barriers that had come to be so second nature to her. She didn’t trust men. She didn’t want to trust men. And yet. . .

  His kiss worked its magic upon her, and she melted from its heat. Slowly, the tenseness left her body, replaced by a feeling of floating as he ran his hands gently up and down her back. Slowly, her lips began to quiver, as the negative messages in her mind began to recede. She kissed him back and he responded.

  But he knew this woman, and she had somehow touched his heart with her untrusting vulnerability, and her outrageous moral courage. If he followed his instincts, it would be the end, instead of the beginning. When she suddenly pulled back, he let her go with a smile.

  It wasn’t going to be enough to just put out the fire that raged in him. This was more. She was more. And while that new and amazing realization flowed over him, enabling him to conquer his impatience, he instinctively knew that he would wait until Willow was ready.

  His breath was coming hard, and his voice was shaky as he pulled his head back to look into her eyes.

  “Someday, Willow. Someday. We belong together.”

  She was exhausted suddenly, from the wide range of emotions that had run rampant through the day.

  She nestled up next to him as they sat down on the couch, tucking herself tightly against him, and they both fell asleep.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rockford was the first to open his eyes a few hours later. The sun had disappeared with the early evening, leaving the sky outside the window a smoky gray as night descended. He didn’t move, wanting to savor the warm feeling of Willow snuggled up next to him, tucked gently against his body as she slept. The fit was so right. It felt so good. He savored the moment.

  The appealing smell of her perfume still lingered in his nostrils, reminding him of the tender moments he had had with her. But through the open windows of her cottage, another smell permeated the air . . . the remains of the pungent smell of fire, smoke, and sodden ash from the Burdett farm down the road. The apprehensions he had felt during the long day returned full force. The fire had been the last in a series of unsettling events. His mind felt a little scrambled, like pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle floating around. Facts and information vital to providing answers were resisting coming together in any semblance of order.

  Willow had been right from the start. Something was definitely going on in Ryerstown. Her concerns about Charley Morse had been justifiable, but limited in scope. Because Charley Morse had been expendable, inconsequential, when all was said and done. He had been simply one piece in the dangerous jigsaw puzzle. But what about Willow? Was she another piece, by her involvement in the real estate deal? Was Willow in danger? Fear burned like acid in his stomach. Visions of Peter, blood spilling, stormed through his mind, torturing him.

  Quietly, careful not to disturb her sleeping form, he rose from the couch. He looked down at her face, still relaxed in sleep. She was going to be mad when she woke up. She’d be way past furious that he was gone. But keeping her alive was important enough to risk it. She would never stop her headstrong investigation into the Burdetts’ disappearance, and every step she took could be drawing her closer to tragedy, unless he found the answers first. He wasn’t going to lose her now. He sneaked out of the room, out of the cottage, heading for town, as the last light of day dimmed to night. You had to move pretty quickly to keep even one step ahead of Wilhemina Blake.

  Willow awakened to the rumble of the car engine as Rockford pulled out of the driveway. Instantly alert, her arm searched the couch where he had been. Rockford was gone. Straining to look out the window, she could see the red twinkle of his taillights in the distance.

  Feelings rushed through her like a freight train out of control. Rockford had slinked away in the darkness of night, leaving her without a word. She felt doubt. They had been so close . . . she felt so vulnerable. Had she meant so little to him?

  But then she began to worry. Had something gone wrong? Had something else happened? She could still smell the lingering odor of wet ash that hovered in the air. She thought of the Burdetts, of Charley Morse.

  Or had Rockford taken off to find new answers, to investigate an idea that had occurred to him in the unconsciousness of sleep? He’d taken off without her, either to avoid her or to protect her. The minute she thought it, she knew it was true. The worry turned to rage.

  Willow bounded from the couch, s
lipping her feet into sneakers. By the time mere seconds had passed, her long legs had carried her out the door, and her Miata was roaring toward town. She’d find him. She’d find out what he was up to, and she’d tell him what she felt about being left behind.

  Rockford knew of only one place to start seeking answers. The real estate deal had been presented with Porter as lawyer, holding power of attorney. However deeply Porter had been involved with Charley Morse, it had included trust to handle the paperwork for purchasing two properties to the tune of half a million each. That was deep enough for Rockford. Porter had better come up with some answers.

  He arrived at his office building, finding a parking space easily, as businesses and offices closed early in Ryerstown. The legal office building was dark. He let himself in through the heavy wooden doors with his own key, and silently moved toward his office without turning on a light.

  He felt a bit like a culprit sneaking around in the dark, but he couldn’t erase the apprehension and worry that nagged at him. He closed the door of his office and turned on his office light. The room sprang to life, taking away the shadows. It was normal, undisturbed. His apprehensions felt a little silly.

  Sitting at his desk, he thumbed through his Rolodex and found Porter’s home telephone number, and dialed it quickly.

  “I’m not here to answer your call right now, but I’ll call you back as soon as possible. Leave your name and number at the beep. . . .”

  “Darn,” Rockford said, ignoring the beep, banging one fist on the desk, and banging the phone back into the cradle with the other. “Where the heck is he?”

  Maybe it was a general attack of paranoia, but he thought he had heard a trace of something in Porter’s taped voice. Not distress exactly, but something akin to it. There was a touch of nervousness. The self-assured, blustering attorney who had intimidated many a witness on the stand didn’t sound quite as confident.

  He thought for a moment, then got up from his desk. There was a lot at stake here . . . and he was going to have to violate some of his own code of ethics. Peter’s voice lingered in his memory. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

  He crossed the hall to Porter’s office door. It was locked.

  With only a flash of conscience, he strode in the darkness to Prudence’s desk in the front hall. He turned on her desk lamp, and began opening her drawers. At the back of her bottom drawer, he found what he was looking for: the set of master office keys that she kept for his uncle. He flipped off the light, and was back at Porter’s door within seconds. The first key on the ring fit the lock. The door swung open.

  The room smelled slightly of pipe smoke, reminding him of Porter. The old-fashioned desk lamp cast a slightly orange glow when he pulled the chain. The desk before him was in disarray. Papers were scattered across its top. A file was open, its contents strewn across the top of the pile. It looked like Porter had left in a hurry. His pipe stood upside down in an ashtray, ashes long cold.

  Rockford sat at the desk, his hands rapidly going through the papers on the desk. He felt a fist close around his heart. The open file was what he dreaded—the real estate papers from the Burdett farm sale. Willow’s name leaped up at him from a handwritten note from Prudence on the top of the file. Call Willow Blake, office 555-3413 or home 555-1678. It was dated the day the real estate transaction had begun.

  He put the file back together, then tacked the other paper on the desk. He found a small pile of phone messages taken by Prudence. He read the first. See me as soon as you come in. It was a command appearance from his uncle.

  Call me about this New York business right away, the next message said. Then, Call me now! On both, the return number was familiar to him. It was his old law firm. Seeing the extension number made the hair on the back of his neck tingle. It was his father’s law office. His father had been trying to get in touch with Porter. Why?

  He glanced around the room, trying to decide what to do next. His eye was caught by a small blinking red light in the corner of the dark room. He walked to it. A simple black telephone sat on the windowsill, attached to an answering machine. Porter had evidently installed a private line, unconnected to the office telephone system. There were two messages on the machine. He pushed the PLAY button with a strange sense of foreboding. “This is Morse, Big Shot,” a gravelly, angry voice rang out. “You get in touch with me, or it’ll be the last thing you do. . . .”

  He had never talked to Charley Morse, but he had heard Willow’s description of his conversations. He didn’t know if Porter had ever gotten the message. But now it was too late. Making the phone call may have been one of the last things Charley Morse did. He shook his head as the message ended with a beep and the next one began.

  “Call at eight tonight. 555-1099. No excuses.” The voice was low and steady, not the excitable angry voice of Morse. The caller left no name, but it didn’t matter. Rockford felt as if he had been punched in the gut by a prizefighter.

  He knew the voice. He hated the voice. He had heard the voice almost daily for the better part of a year. He had listened to the slimy, cruel voice with his emotions intact. He had counseled him, he had defended him. He had helped him go free. And the voice had repaid him by sending a cold-blooded killer after his best friend. It was the voice of Marco Slergetti.

  Bile rose in his throat as his head began to swim. Slergetti was not only back in the country, he was close by. The line had been clear and loud. The phone number hadn’t included an area code. He was instantly horrified at the feelings of anger and revenge that exploded in him. He couldn’t believe what he wanted to do to the owner of the voice. He swallowed hard.

  The next thoughts that came traipsing through his mind had to do with fear. He knew the character of the man who was Marco Slergetti. He knew what he was capable of doing, he knew what he had done. And he knew that some how, he was mixed up with Porter, and with Charley Morse, and therefore, unknowingly, with Willow Blake. His hands began to shake. He knew in that instant just how much he loved Willow. He would protect her with his life.

  Automatically, he shut off the desk light, and walked quickly out of the office, back into his own. The clock read 8:00 P.M. The number from the phone message was etched indelibly on his mind. He knew what he had to do.

  He sat at the desk and picked up the phone, dialing quickly. “Slergetti,” the hated voice answered. “Who’s this?” Rockford hung up the phone gently without saying a word. His heart was hammering inside. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Marco Slergetti was going to be behind bars, and this time, instead of getting him freed, he was going to get him caught. For Peter. For Willow. For himself. He needed to talk to the police. He rushed out the front door of the office, not looking left or right, forgetting, in his rush, the master keys he had stuffed into his pocket.

  Willow watched him tear down the street. It hadn’t been hard to find Rockford at his office; his desk lamp had shone like a beacon in the darkened building as she had pulled up the street. She had passed his car, parking about a block away, and had sneaked back to the office building soundlessly.

  When she stepped up onto the front porch, she had been able to see right into his office, where he sat tensely at his desk. His face was drawn and angry, and she was amazed at the urge she had to rub his tense shoulders and ease his stress.

  But her concern changed to confusion as she saw him pick up the phone, and dial a number from memory, punching the numbers into the phone pad with emotion. She stood in the darkness of the porch, watching through the window as his face contorted with rage. The phone hung up, he had strode from the office like a man on a mission, slamming the front door in his haste, and literally flew down the front steps and into his car.

  He had passed only yards away, yet he hadn’t see her standing in the shadows. Where was he going in such a hurry? What was he up to? She was torn. His car swerved down the street at a rapid pace, and hers was parked over a block away. She would lose him if she tried to follow.

  But g
lancing at the front door, she saw the widened shadow where the heavy doors met. He had slammed the door in his haste, but hadn’t checked it. It had bounced off the door post, and the lock hadn’t caught. She pushed it gently with one hand, and it swung inward. The office was open. She shrugged her shoulders. She might not be able to catch up with him, but she might find out something about what he was up to! She slipped though the partly opened door, and closed it behind her. She was inside the law offices.

  She felt her way to Rockford’s office in the dark, not knowing she was repeating his actions. She found the desk, and turned on the light. The office looked undisturbed. She felt frustrated. He had left her behind. He had several minutes’ head start from the cottage, and then he had several minutes while she had parked her car and had walked up the street. She didn’t know what he had done in his office. She looked at the phone on his desk. She had seen him dial the phone. She picked up the receiver and hit the automatic redial button. A series of tones rang in her ear, then she could hear the phone ringing as the call went through. “Slergetti,” a low voice said. She dropped the phone.

  “Who’s there?” The phone receiver lay on the desk, the squawking voice sounding distant, but there was no mistaking its agitation. “Who’s got this number?” Then the click of a hangup, and the hum of the dial tone. Slowly, as if trying to move underwater, Willow hung up the phone.

  Slergetti. Rockford Harrison had called Slergetti. While she and George had been foolishly concerned about letting Rockford know that Slergetti was around, worried about his rage, his anger over Peter’s death . . . Willow swallowed hard, trying to compose herself, wanting to slow her racing heart. Why had he run to his office to call Slergetti? She had watched him punch the numbers into the phone. He hadn’t even looked them up.