by Mary Stone
Daddy told me it was all part of the plan, told me that this was what God wanted us to do. I was like him, he said. I had a mission. A purpose.
I knew right then that I was going to make my daddy proud.
Without folks like me, my daddy said the whole world would plunge into darkness. There weren’t enough of us, but as long as we were there, we’d keep fighting. We’d keep pushing back against the tide of sin, and we’d keep reminding people that this was God’s country. One way or another, we were going to take this land back, and while we did it, we’d make sure those sinners were punished. That was my purpose.
Momma had been a good, proper woman, but somewhere along the line, she lost her way. That was why Daddy had to send her to meet God. We didn’t make the final judgements, Daddy said. That was up to Him. All we did was carry out our orders.
The police and the folks out around McCook never did believe Daddy’s story that Momma got trampled by a horse. I remember hearing one of them say something about how the damage to her head was too focused, too specific. I’d seen her face when we dropped her out in that field—there wasn’t nothing left. Her dark eyes were gone, smashed into the bloody mess and broken bones of the rest of her head.
I wasn’t surprised when Daddy told me that Momma had lost her way. Women were like that, treacherous, sinful by their own nature. Even the very first woman, Eve, proved that to be the truth. But when Daddy lost his way, well, that was a different type of disappointment.
He called me into the dining room one night, and I could still remember how warm it’d been in that house. The humidity was oppressive, almost like it was about to turn to sludge, and it felt like all the fans did was push it around. We’d had an air conditioner once, but after our church started to lose its following, Daddy had to sell it so he could pay the mortgage.
When I walked into that room, I saw it right away. Set neat and proper on the table in front of my daddy was a .38 Special. We had a couple long guns, a shotgun and a hunting rifle, but the .38 was the only handgun. I pulled out my chair, and it almost looked like the overhead light glinted off the wooden grip when I sat down. Daddy hadn’t touched the weapon yet, though, so I knew it was my imagination.
He started to tell me how proud of me he was, and that’s when I knew what was about to happen. For a minute, I thought he might shoot me, too, but when he started telling me about how I was going to carry on our family’s work, I knew he wouldn’t.
“God has called me home,” he said. When he tucked the barrel of that pistol under his chin and pulled the trigger, I didn’t even flinch.
And maybe God had called him home, I still wasn’t certain. Part of me always thought that Daddy was just too weak for our work. That wasn’t his fault, though. It was the way he had been made. Daddy was a preacher, not a soldier. Not like me.
A month after my eighteenth birthday, I got drafted. Maybe I should have been scared like some of the other guys my age, but I saw it as a sign. I’d never doubted my Daddy’s words, but that draft card was like proof that I had been chosen.
Vietnam was filled with women who needed to be reminded of their place in this world, in a man’s world. Everyone was too busy trying to survive to notice when I’d head out in the middle of the night to punish one of the women in a nearby village. I wasn’t sure how many of those women I sent to God in the three years I was over there, but by the time I came back home in 1971, I knew it was my time.
Women back at home had forgotten their place, not to mention all the squawking about oppression and equal rights. Someone had to do something, and that someone was me.
A flicker of movement from the house across the street snapped my attention back to the present. I’d been gathering wool again, but at least my old brain could still recognize when something important happened back here in the real world.
The woman stepped out onto the dim porch, but a motion sensor brought the golden light overhead to life as soon as it caught her movement. Her back was to me, so I took a quick second and slumped down in the seat of my new van. She was FBI, after all. I couldn’t let her catch on to my presence while I followed her out to wherever she was headed.
Her movements were fluid and graceful as she hurried to the silver sedan that had pulled up to park just behind the mailbox. The bright red of her coat stood out in stark contrast to the shadows left in the wake of the setting sun. I felt the corner of my mouth turn up in a smirk as she pried open the passenger’s side door.
That coat was a lovely shade of red, my favorite color.
I knew right away that it was a sign. My girlie was close, and this lady in the pretty red coat would bring Winter to me. Manhunt or no, I was about to complete my mission.
31
Aside from tucking away her service weapon, Winter put forth no effort to make her apartment feel welcoming. She didn’t even bother to hide the look of exasperation as she pulled open the heavy door to admit her visitor.
When she noticed the trepidation behind Noah’s green eyes, she felt some of the irritability dissipate. His typical cheerful demeanor was gone, and in its place was anxiety, even a pang of sadness.
Had it not been for the unusual expression, she would have been inclined to close the door as soon as she had opened it. Stepping aside to permit him entry, she waved a hand to the living room.
“Come in,” she offered.
“Thanks.” His reply was quiet, and if there was one thing Noah Dalton was not, it was quiet.
Even as she opened her mouth to pose the question, she knew the answer. “Is something wrong with the case? Did they find him? Did they find The Preach…” She cleared her throat. “I mean, did they find Kilroy?”
Whenever someone called Douglas Kilroy “The Preacher,” Winter felt like it gave the man some otherworldly power. Now that he had a name, the façade was over.
“No, it’s not about that.” The words were still soft, and she turned to offer him a quizzical glance.
“What’s wrong?” She made sure to keep any lingering irritability out of her voice.
If there was something wrong in his life, she didn’t want him to think his decision to confide in her was a burden. After all, how many times had he been there to listen to her? His timing might have been inconvenient, but after all the damage that had been done to their friendship over the span of the Kilroy case, she wanted to make sure he knew she was still there.
As he scratched the side of his unshaven face, he offered her a half-smile. “That obvious, huh?”
“I’m your friend. It’s my job to tell if something’s wrong.” For emphasis, she flashed him a matter-of-fact smirk. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Sure.” With a nod and another strained smile, he moved to follow her to the galley kitchen.
“So, what’s up?” She didn’t wait for his request before she handed him a bottle of beer.
Leaning against the counter, he shrugged as he twisted off the cap.
If he didn’t start talking soon, she would have to fish around in the cabinets for a bottle of hard liquor. Did she have shot glasses? She couldn’t remember. If she didn’t, then she would just fill a coffee mug halfway with whiskey and shove it in his hand. She knew how chatty he got after a few too many drinks.
At the thought, an unbidden recollection of a distant, drunken night surfaced. Their outing had been punctuated by jokes and laughter, a far cry from the grave undertone with which they now interacted. Even though he lived only a few doors down from her, she had drunkenly offered for him to crash on her couch.
Only, she hadn’t yet bought a couch, and if he had accepted the offer, well…if the light kiss before his departure that night was any indication, they wouldn’t have managed much actual sleep.
Without warning, her cheeks felt like they had been set on fire. As she raised a hand to rest her cool fingers against the flush, she shot a quick glance over to Noah. He was on his own plane of existence, his green eyes fixed on the countertop across from him.
How long had it been since either of them spoke? A minute? Two? Three?
Coughing into one hand to clear her throat, she shot him an expectant look. “Well?” She forced her voice to remain light. “Do you want me to start guessing, or are you going to tell me what’s bugging you? Because right now, I feel like I’m trying to talk to a rock. A rock that’s drinking my beer.”
His charming smile appeared so suddenly that she almost took a step backwards in surprise. From brooding to down-home Southern charm in zero point two seconds. The man had a gift.
“Now you know how I feel, darlin’.” The grin didn’t waver as he inclined the bottle toward her and took a long swig.
With a huff of feigned exasperation, she crossed both arms over her chest. “I’m not that bad.”
“Okay.” He half-laughed, half-snorted. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
As she took a short step forward, she jabbed an index finger at him. “You’re deflecting, Dalton.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered before taking another sip.
She wanted to rip the bottle from his hand. “Well? Out with it.”
“Winter, I’m really glad you’re my friend. I just want to get that out there first. I know this is shitty timing, but by now I’m starting to wonder how much longer I can keep this to myself before my damn head explodes.”
Though she made an effort to keep her expression neutral, she could hear the sudden rush of her pulse as her breath caught in her throat.
He met her gaze, and the vulnerability in his made her heart ache, but she said nothing while he took another sip of his beer before going on.
“The way I feel about you, Winter, it’s gone beyond that. Beyond friendship. I think maybe it’s been that way for a while, but it seems like these last few months, with everything that’s happened, with watching how hard this has been for you, I think it just sort of drove it home. And now, if I keep it to myself like I have been, then it’s like I’m lying to you. Maybe even like I’m lying to myself. I feel something for you, and I’m sorry if this is the wrong time. I just, I had to tell you.”
She didn’t know when she had moved so close to him, but she swore she felt the heat from his body. His presence had always been a comfort, even on the days when he frustrated her, even after he had gone to Dr. Ladwig. The act felt like a blatant violation of trust, but at the end of the day, his intent hadn’t been to divulge her secrets, but to figure out a way to help her. Aside from Gramma Beth and Grampa Jack, Noah was the only person who cared enough about her to take the risk.
If she told him she didn’t share the feelings, would he still be her friend? And was she really so sure she didn’t share those feelings?
She took a deep breath. Well, there was one way to find out.
Before she could pause to consider the absurdity of her so-called test, she stepped forward to close the remaining distance between them, raised a hand to touch the side of his unshaven face, and tilted her head to press her lips to his.
If he was surprised by the sudden gesture, he didn’t show it.
She expected a wave of clarity, a lightbulb to tell her whether or not she had ventured in the right direction. Maybe an overwhelming sense of contentment or a pervasive desire for more. But aside from the warmth on her cheeks and the rapid beat of her heart, nothing changed. That was not to say she didn’t enjoy the drawn-out kiss. She savored every sweet second of it, but the pieces didn’t snap into place like she’d hoped.
Romantic relationships were not Winter’s forte, she knew. By and large, she had steered clear of any lasting bond that wasn’t strictly platonic. Admittedly, much of the hesitation had been borne from her early infatuation with Aiden Parrish.
There weren’t many college-aged boys who could measure up to a grown man with his own office in the Richmond FBI building. Even now, there weren’t many grown men who could compare to the tall, handsome Aiden Parrish. Part of her hated it, but part of her would have it no other way.
At the thought of Aiden, the first chill of adrenaline pulsed through her veins. Shit. Aiden. What in the hell was she doing?
Dropping one hand to rest over Noah’s button-down shirt, she pulled away from the heated gesture. As she opened and closed her mouth in an attempt to summon up words to explain her impulsive action, his green eyes went wide. It was like he could read her mind.
In a split-second, any hints of contentment on his face were replaced with unabashed dread.
“Oh, shit,” he managed. “What the hell just happened?”
“Oh my god,” she stammered. Reaching to cover her mouth, she shook her head. “I don’t know what that was. I didn’t mean to, oh my god, I didn’t mean to do that. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
She could almost hear him bite back a sarcastic response as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. As his eyes darted from one kitchen fixture to the next, he heaved a sigh and gulped down the rest of his drink. When Winter licked her lips, she could taste the craft beer.
“It’s just, it’s not a good time.” The words were quiet and weary, and she fought to keep her gaze from dropping to the floor. He didn’t respond, and she took her cue to continue. “For a second, I thought I was losing you. I thought I was losing my friend, and I just, I don’t know. I panicked and I kissed you, and I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair to you, and if you want to tell me to go to hell while you walk out the door right now, I think I’d understand.”
She waited for him to say something. Hoped like hell that he would say something. But he just stood there, waiting for her to go on.
So, on she went. “If I’m being honest, I don’t know what I want right now. Other than this case, other than seeing Douglas Kilroy dead or in prison, I’ve got no idea what I want anymore.”
He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Winter, I—”
She held up a hand, hating how her fingers trembled. “I really hope you’ll stick with me while I figure it out, but after what I just did, I wouldn’t blame you if you decided not to. You’re basically my only friend, Noah, and I don’t want to risk screwing that up unless I’m one-hundred-percent sure I’m doing the right thing. But I guess that’s all provided I didn’t just screw it up, huh?”
Though his laugh was strained, she was relieved to see some of the usual humor return to his handsome face.
“No, Winter, that’s all right. Thank you for being honest. That’s all you can really do, you know?”
“I guess.” She felt deflated, like someone had just poked a hole in her side to let out all the air.
“Okay, well,” he pronounced. With a hapless shrug, he held up his hands. “I feel like an idiot. I’ll just get that out there right now. I’m not going to turn into a jackass just because you don’t have the same feelings that I do, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to bounce right back. Right now, I’m going to go out to the living room, grab my coat, and then slither into the darkest hole I can find.”
“You and me both,” she muttered.
She wanted to turn his offhand remark into a reality. She wanted to go grab her coat, drive to a hardware store to buy a shovel, and dig a hole. Maybe she didn’t need a hole, maybe all she needed was a camouflaged coat. Then, instead of lying in the dirt, she could hide in a bush until her awkward embarrassment abated.
Just as she was about to make a comment about leaving to buy a camouflaged coat, the realization dawned on her.
“What?” she heard him say.
“The coat.” The words were scarcely above a whisper. “The red coat, holy shit. You remember the red coat? That coat I wore to catch that rapist asshole a while back?”
“The one Bree lent you? Yeah, what about it?”
“I saw it. That vision, or whatever you want to call it, that’s what it was. It was Bree’s coat.”
He perked up at the mention of a vision, and he set his jaw to flash her a determined look.
“He’s going after Bree.” Even as the words left her lips, she brus
hed past him and hurried down the hall to her room. She donned a pair of dark jeans, boots, and exchanged her hoodie for a worn leather jacket all in record time. After she snatched up her keys and tucked her service weapon beneath her arm, she glanced to Noah and nodded.
Neither of them bothered to speak as they all but sprinted into the chilly evening. Just as she approached the passenger side of Noah’s pickup, she spotted a flicker of color in her periphery.
“Hold on.” She took in a deep breath and shifted her gaze to the source of the red glow. The mailbox. Her mailbox. Without a word of explanation, she stalked toward the glimmer.
As she turned the key over to pull open the metal door, she felt like each movement was made through molasses. She had gotten her mail after she returned home that afternoon, and a photo was the only item in the little cubby.
“What is it?” Noah’s voice grew clearer as he approached, his foot falls quiet.
She took in a sharp breath as she held up the Polaroid to the white glow of a nearby streetlight. Wrists zip-tied together, a black bandana tied around her face. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth was agape.
“Shit,” Noah growled. “Is she dead?”
“I don’t know.” As she shook her head, Winter glanced up to her friend. “But we need to go.”
With a solemn nod, he turned and made his way back to the parking lot, Winter less than a couple steps behind.
32
Bree’s thoughts shifted back and forth between the realm of unconsciousness and the waking world, but every time she tried to speak, her voice was muffled by a wad of fabric. The ache in her head was exacerbated by each bump, and she squeezed her eyes closed against the throbbing pain. She didn’t know where she was, but she could tell that she had been loaded into a vehicle, and the vehicle was in motion.