by Kylie Brant
“How old was Eryn when she killed your sister?”
The other man’s mouth firmed to a thin line. “Nine.”
“And now?”
“Twenty-one. She’s had excellent treatment. The best. A judge has signed off on her release based on the recommendation of her doctors. What happened today was terribly upsetting for all of us. I hope I can count on your continued support if anything similar occurs again.” His fingers were laced together on the desk in front of him so tightly the knuckles shone white.
Ryder gave a slow nod. “Of course. But you need to be prepared for some of the locals expressing a similar sentiment.”
William’s gaze dropped to his tightly clenched hands. With deliberate care, he loosened them. “That would be unfortunate. My niece’s diagnosis remains unchanged. But with continued medical care and medication, she’s no threat to anyone.”
Unless she refused therapy. Stopped taking her meds. Ryder recognized all the possible pitfalls the man left unsaid. “There’s no telling what the news channels will report,” Ryder replied honestly. “Knowing how reporters work, I wouldn’t be surprised to have a complete rundown of your sister’s case on the six o’clock news.” The other man swore. “I spoke at more length with the trespasser we arrested. Frederick Bancroft. Do you know him?” William shook his head. “He’s from Crabtree. Affiliated with some fringe church, it sounds like. The kind that shows up at inopportune times to point out how everyone else is going to hell. He contacted all of the others. When I asked how he knew you’d be bringing Eryn home today, he said he’d received a phone call a couple of days ago informing him of the upcoming event.”
Ryder watched carefully, but William’s expression reflected only bewilderment. “But . . . how? No one outside the family knew about her release. We just finalized the paperwork two weeks ago.” He shook his head. “Obviously, the man is lying.”
“Anchors from the news stations who showed up today said they’d gotten anonymous tips telling them the same thing. So I hate to ask you this, William”—Ryder leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped between his knees—“but can you be certain no one in your family might have been the tipster?”
“Of course I’m certain.” William’s tone was dismissive. “There’s only my wife, two sons, and the housekeeper. We didn’t even tell any of the help until this morning.”
Ryder leaned back, instincts humming. “And the facility?”
“The resort has an impeccable reputation for discretion. I’m fairly certain there would be no leaks there, either. They pay their staff well, which ensures a certain amount of loyalty.”
Loyalty. Ryder didn’t tell him that no matter what the pay was, in most cases loyalty could be trumped by profit. Especially the type that couldn’t be traced.
Cady: Two Days Later
“I’ll be damned. Like a charm. How the hell do you call ’em?”
“Instinct. Pay up.” Without taking her eyes off the man swaggering up the sagging porch steps of Crony’s bar and grill, Deputy US Marshal Cady Maddix wiggled her fingers toward the other marshal, Miguel Rodriguez. She closed them around the twenty the man slapped into her palm. The info she’d gotten from DelRay James Woodhouse’s ex-girlfriend had paid off. The woman had named half a dozen places the man had been seen recently, most of them duplicates of this establishment. It was barely dusk, but they’d hit gold on the second place they’d tried.
“Looks like a good spot to get ptomaine poisoning,” Miguel noted.
She nodded. North Carolina required places serving alcohol to derive 30 percent of their income from food, unless they were private clubs. To get around the law, any place with a grill and deep-fat fryer called itself a restaurant. Cady shifted in the front seat of the minivan to stuff the bill in her jeans, watching Woodhouse step past the window’s flickering neon beer sign and through the front door. Only then did she look at Miguel. “And half the assholes in there will be carrying.”
“Maybe more. If he has any friends inside, arresting him there could get ugly in a hurry. Maybe we should call in the rest of the task force.”
Impatience flickered through her. Fugitive investigations were worked with a group of stakeholders that always included the law enforcement entity that had issued the warrant and frequently other federal agencies as well. The added personnel were often critical, both in the investigation aspect and the arrest. But Woodhouse had eluded authorities primarily because he couch—or bed—surfed. His habit of hooking up with a different woman every few days had made him difficult to track. How long before he left with another one? “By the time it assembles, Woodhouse could be gone,” she said finally. “Let me go in alone and see if I can draw him out. Give me thirty minutes or so to work him.”
The other marshal’s gaze went beyond her to two patrons crossing the rutted lot toward the front of the place. “It’s busier than I’d expected for a Sunday. I think it’d be better to follow you inside in five and keep watch from a safe distance. He’s not going to notice me behind you when the two of you leave.”
“Someone else might. We’ll make it twenty minutes.”
Miguel’s brows skimmed upward. “Confidence. I like it. Okay, twenty it is. If he isn’t trailing you out the door like a puppy dog by then, you come out and we’ll contact the task force. We could always follow him if he gets lucky before everyone is assembled.”
Cady was already sliding out of the vehicle and shutting the door behind her. She lifted her face to the kiss of the cool November air. It was a welcome change from the furnacelike heat in the car. Miguel had the circulation of a ninety-year-old woman. If allowed, he’d counter the outdoor temperatures with a tropical eighty in the vehicle. And since it was her turn to drive, he’d controlled the heat and the radio all day. She felt like she was stepping out of a sauna.
As she walked toward the steps, Cady slipped a hand inside her black leather jacket to unbutton the top three buttons of her shirt. Her weapon was locked in the glove box. She felt naked without its weight strapped across her chest. The steel-toed western boots she wore hid the short sap she’d slid inside. A pair of flex-cuffs were stuffed down the back of her jeans.
The N in Crony’s lighted sign was out, but she gave the owner props for the apostrophe. She pulled open the door and stepped inside. Its dim interior hid the seediness a more unforgiving lighting would reveal. The place was indistinguishable from a thousand others like it. A long, scarred bar, a few wobbly tables, and nearly twenty thirsty patrons. There’d be a shotgun behind the bar, and the meaty bartender would know how to use it. This far out in the sticks, a businessman had to be ready to protect his own.
DelRay was leaning between two tattooed females at the end of the bar, both of whom were wearing far less than Cady. She weaved in a deliberately unsteady gait to a barstool several seats away from them and assessed her quarry from the corner of her eye. North Carolina was an open carry state, no permit required. When she’d entered, she’d counted eight pistols on the customers in plain view, and she wouldn’t be surprised if the ladies packed heat in their purses. DelRay was wearing a tight black T-shirt and black jeans. If he was carrying, most likely his weapon was strapped to his ankle.
“Getcha?”
The bartender slowed his bulk before her, giving Cady an appraising once-over. She wasn’t worried about being made as law enforcement. In her experience, there wasn’t a male alive who could see beyond a woman’s cleavage to the threat she represented. “Jameson Black. Neat.”
He moved slowly away, and she half turned, propping an elbow on the bar and scanning the place, letting her gaze linger on DelRay until he looked up, catching her eyeing him. She held his gaze for a second, then unhurriedly surveyed the rest of the interior until she heard the bartender behind her.
“Five dollars.”
Cady dug in her pocket for the twenty she’d taken from Miguel earlier and handed it to him. She picked up the shot and pretended to sip, allowing the liquid to trickle onto her shirt. Ho
pefully, the smell would make her later pretense believable. She shot a look over her shoulder at the lone pool table at the back of the place. From the money stacked on one side, the men gathered around it didn’t seem likely to move aside anytime soon.
She slid off the seat. Sauntering toward the old-fashioned jukebox against the wall past the bar, she propped her fists on the machine as she perused the titles. There wasn’t a song listed that had graced the country music charts in a decade. Cady took her time selecting two songs for five bucks—a rip-off—keeping her head down as footsteps approached.
“You looking for a dance partner, sweetheart?” The man who appeared at her side sported a hubcap-size belt buckle, only glimpses of which were visible beneath the overhang of his belly. He gyrated his hips. “I’m pretty light on my feet.”
“I don’t doubt it.” She gave him an easy smile and pushed away from the jukebox. “But I’m waiting for someone.”
She headed back to her seat, feeling DelRay’s gaze on her as she wended through the tables and resettled on her barstool. A few minutes later the two women flanking Woodhouse headed off together to the restroom. Keeping her eyes trained on the shot before her, she felt rather than saw the man slide onto the seat beside her. “Slow as you’re drinking, the shot might . . . whatchacallit . . . evaporate before you get to it.”
She turned her head, gave him a smile. With the overly enunciated speech of the inebriated, Cady said, “I think I’d be better off if I’d a let the last two or three evaporate instead of drinking ’em.” She gave a drunken giggle. “Either I’m gonna hafta sober up, or I’ll need to call one of them Ubers to come get me and take me home.”
DelRay laughed, showing a missing right-front incisor. “Don’t think we’re in Uber territory, girl. Where do you live?”
“Outside Weaverville, on Oakdale. It’s kinda isolated, but it’s a real nice little house. Homey.”
“Isolated, huh?” The man’s thoughts were transparent. “It might not be safe for a woman living alone out there by herself.”
“Oh, I’m not alone.” The man’s expression stilled. Cady leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I got a cat that went three rounds with a raccoon last week and came out on top. And a Chihuahua who’s feared by squirrels countywide.”
The man’s face relaxed. “Well, now, sounds like you got some fine protection. If you taught either of them to drive, you’d be set.”
She laughed hysterically, and he joined in, lifting his left foot to rest it on the step in front of the bar. Cady glimpsed leather above his ankle and knew her earlier suspicion had been right. He was armed.
“My name is Harris. Harris Stevens.” It was one of several aliases the man had used before he’d been arrested and charged with armed robbery. Before he’d cut off the electronic monitoring bracelet he’d worn as one of the terms of his bail and taken off for parts unknown.
“Priscilla. Folks just call me Cissy.” She pretended to slide halfway off her seat, barely catching herself on the bar. “Oops.” Cady giggled again and mentally tabulated the time since she’d come inside. Maybe fifteen minutes. She didn’t trust Miguel to wait the full twenty before heading inside to check on her progress. “How much have you had to drink?”
DelRay’s teeth flashed again, although his gaze was fixed on her chest. “Not as much as you, looks like.”
“Well that’s a fact, since I started day-drinking at noon. I’ll give you twenty dollars to drive me home. You have a friend you can call to come pick you up at my place?”
His thoughts were as easy to read as a billboard. “I got one or two. You keep your money, though. It’ll be my good deed for the day.”
She made a show of sliding carefully from the stool, then stumbling against him. “You, Harris Stevens, are a true gentleman.”
He slapped a hand to his chest and grinned widely. “It’s like you already know me.”
Experience told Cady to bide her time. Waiting to take him outside the bar was the easiest way to avoid trouble with any buddies he might have in here. So she leaned heavily on him, positioning her body so the hand he wanted to place on her butt landed on her hip instead. She didn’t need him discovering the flex cuffs before she was ready.
“What’d you drive here, sweetheart?”
“Black double-cab pickup with lots of chrome,” she lied. The vehicle she described was two spaces over from where they’d parked. “Keys are in the ignition.” She batted her eyes at him. “Bad habit of mine.”
They staggered out the door. “I wanna hear all about your bad habits.” He leered at her as they went down the steps and began to cross the lot. “’Specially the dirty ones.”
Cady bent over as if lost in gales of laughter at his half-witted comment. He grinned and turned toward her, giving her the opening she was looking for. With one quick movement, she stepped behind him, sweeping her leg in front of his while she grabbed one of his arms and propelled him forward.
“What the fuck?” He tripped, and she used her knee to force him facedown in the gravel, wrenching the arm she still grasped upward while her knee moved to his back.
“Deputy US Marshal.” Cady heard a car door slam as she freed the cuffs tucked into the back of her waistband beneath her jacket and fastened one to the man’s wrist before reaching for his other arm. “DelRay James Woodhouse, you failed to show up in court for armed robbery charges.” She hauled him to his feet as Miguel jogged up to them. “Weapon in left ankle holster,” she said in an aside to her partner.
“Bullshit,” DelRay shouted, shooting her a lethal look over his shoulder. “The hearing was postponed.”
“Indefinitely, after you cut off your monitoring bracelet and headed out of the county.” Cady waited until Miguel had possession of DelRay’s gun before guiding the man toward the vehicle. “I’m sure the judge will want to hear all about your decision-making process.”
“Keep talking, bitch.” DelRay’s voice was smug. “Wait ’til I tell my lawyer you arrested me under false pretenses. I’ll be a free man by tomorrow.”
Miguel opened the sliding door of their vehicle, a white minivan that shouted soccer mom. “This is going to be good,” he murmured to Cady.
She put an ungentle hand on the man’s head as he got into the back seat. “False pretenses, huh. How do you figure?”
“Entrapment. You were offering sex to get me outside.”
Miguel’s grin was partially hidden by the fist he raised to cover his fake cough. Cady rolled her eyes. “Yeah, genius, try that with the lawyer when he visits you in lockup while he’s explaining there’s no chance of bail—or a return of the money—since you skipped out.” She slammed the door and opened her own.
Cady buttoned up her shirt before buckling her seat belt. She pulled out of the lot, unmoved by his string of obscenities. “Save it for the judge. It should really sway her at sentencing.”
They delivered the prisoner to the Western District of North Carolina federal courthouse in Asheville. After processing him, Cady and Miguel turned him over to the Buncombe County deputies they’d summoned, who would transport him to jail.
Cady and Miguel left the building and headed toward the parking lot. What she’d figured would be another late night trailing Woodhouse had ended far earlier than she’d expected. There was plenty of time to stop by and see her mom before heading home. She’d missed spending Saturday with her because she’d worked through the weekend. But dropping in at irregular times gave Cady a better feel for what kind of care Hannah was getting from her sister, Alma.
She dug the keys out of her pocket as she approached her vehicle. The Jeep in the lot was the one she usually drove, unless another marshal needed it for an investigation. She sent a sideways glance at Miguel, who was on his phone with one of his seemingly endless string of women.
“I can be there in forty minutes.” He listened and then gave a low masculine chuckle. Cady pointed the fob at the Jeep and unlocked it. She opened the door, then paused expectantl
y, waiting for her partner’s reaction. He was so preoccupied with his call it took him a moment to put things together. He halted, looked around with an expression of confusion on his too-handsome face before his head swiveled toward Cady. “I’ll call you back,” he said hurriedly into the cell before he backtracked and headed her way. She climbed into the vehicle. Started it.
“No. C’mon, even you can’t be that mean.”
“Mean? Me? I always drive the Jeep, Miguel.” The USMS had several vehicles for use by the marshals, and they sometimes traded with each other when one better fit the need of the investigation. Miguel usually drove a pickup equipped like a construction vehicle, but he’d traded yesterday for a lame minivan that would look innocuous in the bar parking lots they’d been cruising while they’d searched for Woodhouse.
“Cady. Please.”
She smiled. The charm didn’t work on her, but she gave the man points for trying.
“I’ve got a date! I can’t show up driving . . . a van.” His tone made the word sound like an epithet.
“You’ll have to take it home and get your car, then.” She almost felt sorry for him then. Almost.
“That’ll take over an hour!”
She managed, barely, to avoid rolling her eyes. “She’ll keep. Or you could just use the van. Let her picture you as a future family man.” She laughed at the sheer terror on his face and drove out of the lot.
Her amusement faded as she started out of town. Once she’d left behind the Asheville traffic—which, compared to Saint Louis wasn’t even deserving of the name—she drove west. Her Aunt Alma’s cabin was located in a rural area a few miles west of Waynesville. Cady had spent more time than she cared to recall staying there with her mom, after another in Hannah’s string of boyfriends had drank or snorted the rent money. The memories were like bruises, dark and tender. Cady concentrated on the road and tried not to let the familiar shadows drift in. Distance had helped relegate her childhood ghosts to the dusty corners of her mind. Years after leaving North Carolina, she’d thought they’d been banished completely, only to find them still waiting upon her return, a motley army of specters ready to ambush the moment she lowered her guard.