Thunder at Dawn

by Jill Gregory

  So at four in the morning she prowled the cabin and sipped green tea, trying to forget the nightmare. It came less often now . . . but still it came.

  She was wide awake, pacing, when her cell rang.

  “Hello?”

  As usual, nothing showed on her caller ID. He was either calling from a pay phone or he’d used a calling card.

  And as usual, he said nothing.

  “Bayman, I know it’s you. I’m going to get a restraining order if you keep this up.” Faith spoke quickly, her voice awake and alert, clear as a whistle. “It’s harassment. And it’s only going to get you in deeper trouble. You hear me?”

  She heard something then. Something that in the dim solitude of the isolated cabin chilled her blood.

  Laughter. Soft, faint laughter.

  Then a click.

  Faith threw down the phone. He’d hung up.

  Chapter 5

  HANK BAYMAN WHISTLED AS HE GOT OUT OF his car and slammed the door a block from the Krispy Kreme doughnut shop.

  It was impossible not to be in a good mood, now that he had a plan. A damned good plan, for that matter. One that was going to get him exactly what he wanted. Calling Faith Barclay’s cell phone had been satisfying for a while, but now it was no longer enough.

  Time to take the next step.

  The day felt cool, more like autumn than late summer, and he ducked his head against the wind as he reached the doughnut shop.

  “Large coffee and a Bavarian cream,” he told the washed-out-looking blonde behind the counter. A quick check of the crowded shop showed that Marco wasn’t there yet.

  Just as well. Better let the place clear out a little first. Too many people around and someone might overhear.

  Twenty minutes later, Marco burst in, his cop uniform drawing some smiles and nods, some wary glances.

  “Hey, there.” The blonde flashed a welcoming smile that deepened the lines feathering her pink-lipsticked mouth. “You want the usual, Officer Washington?”

  “That’ll do me, Connie. Thanks.”

  “For here or to go?”

  “Here.” Marco gazed leisurely around the shop as the woman filled a tall Styrofoam cup with black coffee, then reached into a doughnut rack with a square of wax paper to seize a doughnut.

  His eyes met Bayman’s, but only a slight nod of his head betrayed any sign of recognition. After he had his coffee and doughnut in hand, he ambled over to the table where Bayman was sipping his coffee and casually took a seat.

  “Better make this quick. My partner’s on the phone with his wife—she might be in labor—and I’ve got to get back. What do you want?”

  “I want the assistant DA, what else? That Barclay bitch.”

  “The one who nearly nailed your butt?” Marco stared at him from beneath unkempt black brows. “Haven’t you had enough trouble? If you’re smart you’ll stay away from that one.”

  “If you’re smart,” Bayman said in a low tone, “you’ll shut up and do exactly what I tell you.”

  “Depends what it is.” Marco took a sip of his coffee, wincing as it burned the roof of his mouth.

  Bayman leaned forward. “The dingbat who answers the phone at the DA’s office said she’s on a leave of absence. I want to know where she is.”

  “Look, I already got you her cell phone number. If you want to keep stalking the ADA, you’re on your own.”

  “I don’t think so, Marco.”

  “Jesus, Hank, you looking to do time? Forget about her. You got off—with probation, for cripes sake. You might not be so lucky next time.”

  “My goddamned wife is gone, Marco.” Bayman’s voice was a soft snarl, ferocious as a wolf. He hadn’t touched his doughnut. A fly, emboldened, made a swoop at it, then buzzed away. Bayman’s eyes shone like copper nuggets in his heavy-jowled face. “The Barclay bitch has Susan hidden away somewhere. That’s fucking not acceptable.”

  “What are you, stupid? You gotta leave Susan alone. Let her go, Hank. Start over. Maybe take some of them anger management classes they always talk about. If Susan’s gone, she doesn’t want you anymore.”

  “Listen, asshole.” Bayman’s face was flushed, his eyes had narrowed to dangerous slits. In the tiny doughnut shop, his voice whipped across the Formica table, quick, precise. “You’re not here to give me advice. You’re here for one reason only. I want to know where Faith Barclay is. Specifics. How long she’s gone, when she’s coming back. Her home address, if she’s there. Her hotel in Miami, if she’s on vacation. I want every last detail, you got it? And I want it by tonight.”

  Marco stared at him as if he’d just asked to be FedExed to Mars. “You need to chill, Hank. You’re going to get yourself in deep—”

  “Shut up.” Bayman snapped the words so loudly several people in the shop glanced his way. The blonde turned her head, alarm flickering in her eyes.

  Bayman didn’t care. He was done here anyway. “By tonight, Marco.” He forced his lips into a smile and waited until the gapers lost interest before he spoke again. “Or else your sergeant’s going to know all about that time you skimmed cash off the Fornelli bust.”

  The cop’s face blanched gray as ash. “Jesus, Hank. You going to hold that over my head all my life? I never done anything like that again. We had a baby on the way and—” Marco broke off, glancing around. He was sweating now. He looked both angry and scared.

  Bingo, Bayman thought with satisfaction. Marco is so predictable. This shit works every time.

  “Yeah, I am going to hold it over your head, pal. Whatcha going to do about it, old buddy?” With a hoarse guffaw, Bayman shoved back his chair. He left his uneaten doughnut and half-filled cup on the table, clapped Marco on the shoulder, and leaned down.

  “By tonight, or I give Sergeant Rodriquez an earful,” he warned in a tone that only Marco Washington could hear.

  He whistled again as he headed to his car. His mood had lightened again the moment he’d left that doughnut shop. Because if there was one thing he knew better than his own name, it was that Marco, his good ol’ pal from the days when they were both rookies on the force, would do anything to keep from getting nailed.

  Marco had a wife, kids, a mortgage, and was up for promotion. The last place he wanted to end up was the pokey.

  Officer Washington—family man, decorated cop, friend to doughnut shop slackers everywhere—would find a way to get the 411 on Faith Barclay. No question about it.

  Chapter 6

  “HOW ON EARTH DID I LET YOU TALK ME INTO this?” Faith asked Patti in mock dismay as she gazed around the loud, noisy bedlam of the Tumbleweed Bar and Grill.

  It was Saturday night and they were seated at a table under the window. Cool fresh air fluttered the paper napkins and ruffled Faith’s hair—Patti had only half jokingly called this the nonsmoking section, or as close as you’d get to one in any drinking establishment in Thunder Creek.

  The place was packed. Across from the bar, both pool tables were surrounded by players—men in cowboy hats and women in skintight jeans—but the steady click of pool cues was nearly lost in the din of laughter and talk that swirled through the bar, not to mention the Johnny Cash tune rumbling from the jukebox.

  “That’s easy—you wanted to come here because you’ve done nothing but work on the auction, ride, and hike around by yourself for the past week. You’re lonely as hell. Admit it.” Patti pushed a bowl of beer nuts across the table toward her as Faith sipped a beer.

  “I’m not lonely, I’m relaxed,” she countered. It was true. For the past week, since she’d had dinner at Patti and Bob’s, she’d actually started to unwind. Despite that creepy phone call from Bayman in the middle of the night, she’d wrapped herself up in the calm of the cabin and the serenity of Blue Moon Mesa and had finally felt some of the tension that had wracked her for months beginning to ease.

  She’d even slept five straight hours the past few nights. Progress.

  “What else can I get you all to drink?” A red-haired waitress in a hot-pin
k blouse and black jeans paused beside Bob’s chair and peered around the table.

  “More lemonade for me, sweetie.” Patti patted her belly with a grin.

  Bob ordered another beer and Faith asked for the same.

  “We can’t stay too much longer actually—too much secondhand smoke won’t be good for the baby,” Patti said. “But everyone stops in the Tumbleweed at least for a little while on Saturday night. And I knew you wouldn’t want to miss out on the action.”

  “What action? You mean if Big John Templeton or Randy Otis wins the darts competition?” Faith shot back, then grinned. She wasn’t really annoyed. The Tumbleweed, along with Bessie’s Diner, was a central part of Thunder Creek social life and it had felt good to slip into old jeans and a red sweater, to plop herself into the midst of a crowd of happy people who all knew each other and wanted to have a good time. She spotted Roy and Corinne coming in the door and waved. They headed straight for the table.

  “Don’t forget, you promised to come to dinner next week,” Corinne told her with a smile.

  “How are things going at the cabin?” Roy wanted to know. “If you start to feel lonely out there, we’ve got a spare bedroom. It’ll be turned into a nursery in a few months, but it’s yours now anytime you need it.”

  “Thanks, Roy, but everything is great. I love it at the cabin.”

  “Hello, beautiful lady. How about a dance?”

  She looked up into the deep-set brown eyes of Rusty Gallagher. He looked coolly handsome in pressed jeans and a white polo shirt as he held out a hand.

  “I figure we should practice up before the dinner dance,” he said, easily filling the moment that she hesitated.

  “Oh. Yes. Absolutely.” Faith had no choice but to take that outstretched hand and walk with him to the dance floor. She was very conscious of the eyes boring into her back as Roy, Corinne, Patti, and Bob all watched Rusty slip an arm around her waist as Garth Brooks came on the jukebox.

  “That guy doesn’t waste any time,” Roy remarked, grinning. “So they must have hit it off at dinner last week.”

  “Not exactly. Will you just look at your cousin?” Patti popped a beer nut into her mouth. “Does she look swoony to you? I’ve seen more enthusiasm from a third-grader getting put into time out in the corner.”

  Corinne sighed. “Oh, no, don’t tell me you’re matchmaking again, Roy. Just because you pushed Ty and Josy together and they ended up falling madly in love doesn’t mean your middle name is Cupid.”

  “You watch,” Roy told her. “I’m going to be two for two.” He tipped back his beer.

  But Bob was looking toward the bar. “Don’t count Owen out.”

  The others followed his gaze. Owen Carey was hunched on a barstool, sipping a beer as he watched Faith and Rusty on the dance floor.

  “I haven’t seen Owen scowl like that since Nancy Pruitt broke up with him and skidoodled out of town,” Bob said.

  “All right, then, maybe we’ve got a horse race. Let the best man win.” Roy put an arm around his wife. “Just so long as Faith is happy.”

  “Maybe Faith is the best judge of what makes Faith happy,” Patti murmured.

  Corinne nodded. “Now there’s a voice of reason. You should listen to her.” She poked Roy’s arm. “How about dancing with your wife, cowboy? Or are you going to let the single people have all the fun?”

  On the dance floor, Rusty wasted no time in clasping Faith’s hand in his, while his other arm tightened around her waist.

  Garth crooned from the jukebox, and all around them in the smoky dimness, couples melted together, swaying and shuffling across the floor.

  “How are the plans for the auction coming along?” Rusty asked as he guided her smoothly away from the thick of the crowd.

  “Terrific. We have over one hundred items donated now—and nearly three quarters of the tickets for the dinner dance have been sold.”

  “I’m sure you were a big part of accomplishing all that,” Rusty said.

  Faith tried to ignore the pressure of his arm at her back. “It was very much a team effort.”

  “Modest as well as beautiful.” He grinned. “I like that in a woman. You don’t find it too often. Take my boss’s wife, for example. Please.”

  He chuckled at his own joke, but Faith’s attention had shifted to his appearance. His skin was flushed. His eyes shone almost golden in the dim light. And there was alcohol on his breath.

  He’s drunk, she realized, even as she felt Rusty’s hand slide from her waist to cup her bottom.

  She reached behind her and pushed his hand away. “You’re out of order, Counselor. You lose points for that.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor.” He chuckled. “I didn’t mean anything by it. How can I get them back?” He leaned in closer to her—a little too close. Faith’s spine stiffened.

  “You’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”

  “Fair enough.” With a wink, he added, “I like a woman who plays hard to get.”

  And I like a man who waits for an invitation to grope my butt, she thought, but instead said with a cool little smile, “I’m not playing, Rusty. I am hard to get.”

  He studied her face, the cool gorgeous eyes, that perfect mouth. Slowly he nodded as the song came to an end. “Then I’ll have to woo you proper.”

  Faith barely heard. Zach McCallum had just pushed through the doors of the Tumbleweed, and he wasn’t alone.

  Candy Merck had her arm linked with his as they paused for a moment to survey the crowded bar.

  Faith’s heart did a crazy little leap. Then Zach’s gaze locked with hers across the room.

  For a moment he did nothing but stare at her, then his glance shifted to Rusty, whose arm was still tightly encircling Faith’s waist.

  She saw a frown darken his face. Then Candy whispered something to him and tugged on his arm. Through the haze of smoke, Faith saw Zach drag his gaze back to the blonde in the slinky red tank top and white leather miniskirt. They turned toward the pool tables.

  “Join me at the bar for a drink?” Rusty asked, not moving from the dance floor as other couples drifted back to their tables.

  “I’m with friends. I’d better get back.” She started to walk away from him, but he yanked her toward him once more, the wide handsome grin spreading across his face.

  “Hey, I’m a friend too, aren’t I?”

  Faith realized his grip on her arm was tight enough that she couldn’t break free without a struggle. Which would mean a scene. Already she could see Roy watching them. To her dismay, he looked like he was almost halfway out of his chair.

  Enough was enough. “I think you’ve had plenty to drink for one night, Rusty,” she said quickly. “You’re stepping over the line.”

  “I’m bein’ friendly. Whass wrong with that?” His grip was hurting her arm.

  “Let me go, or my cousin’s going to shove your teeth down your throat,” she said coldly. “Unless I do it first. Or would you like to be kicked in the balls?”

  “Literally or figuratively?” He laughed, his eyes both bright and bleary, and she realized that he was mistaking her anger for some kind of weird flirtation. And he probably had no idea her brothers had taught her a dozen different ways to protect herself from drunken idiots—or worse.

  “You’re hurting my arm, Rusty. Let go of me—now.” She managed to jerk free, only to have him step forward and grab her hand in his.

  “One little drink at the bar,” he insisted. “Just one—”

  Again Faith pulled her hand free, her mouth tight with anger. Alarm ripped through her as she saw Roy launching himself out of his chair, with Bob right behind him. Damn.

  Then she saw Owen hurrying toward them from the bar, a rare frown on his good-natured face.

  “Rusty,” she said quickly, “you’d better get out of—”

  But she was too late. He was suddenly shoved ruthlessly away from her, and went skidding into a table. At the last instant he managed to grab the edge of it to keep him
self from falling onto the floor.

  And Zach McCallum stood in front of her, his eyes steely.

  “Are you all right?”

  Faith was too stunned to speak. She just stared at Zach in amazement. His face was taut with anger, making him look like some handsome avenging devil, and those intense dangerous silver eyes lasered in on hers with the force of a torpedo. A thousand emotions splintered through her, astonishment foremost among them. And in that instant she finally found her voice.

  “Of course I’m all right. Who the hell asked you to mess in my life?”

  Zach’s gaze hardened. And then she saw Rusty lunging straight at him in a flying tackle.

  “Look out!” she shrieked.

  Zach wheeled around just in time and both men hit the floor in a flurry of fists, grunts, and denim.

  “Best step out of the way, cuz.” Roy’s hands clamped down on her shoulders and drew her back ten feet from the fray.

  “You’d better stop them, Roy, or I will!” she demanded, shaking off his protective grip.

  “Gallagher has it coming. He was all over you,” Roy countered, but to Faith’s relief, Owen and Bob were already hauling the two men apart. But not before Zach got in one final punch to the attorney’s midsection.

  Rusty had quite obviously received the worst of it. He was doubled over, the wind knocked out of him, and a dribble of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Zach’s dark hair was barely mussed.

  “That’s enough, folks. Settle down.” Elam the bartender strode over, holding his hands over his head. “That’s all the excitement for tonight.” He pointed at Rusty, looking dazed and angry as a gored bull.

  “You.” The bartender jerked his thumb toward the door. “Out.”

  Touching a hand to his bruised mouth, the attorney scowled at Zach. “You just made a big mistake, McCallum. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Zach picked up his hat from the floor, dusted it off against his jeans, and set it on his head. “Someone who’ll wipe the floor with you if you don’t stay out of my way,” he said coolly.