Hidden Motive

by Alexander, Hannah

  “Of course you will.”

  “But why don’t we work out a deal?” She continued to talk to cover the sound of Audrey’s movements. “If you’re going to disappear anyway as one of Boswell’s unseen minions, you could give us a fighting chance.”

  “And how would I do that?”

  “You can start by handing over that ugly-looking gun of yours,” Audrey said from behind Perry.

  Perry froze, eyes narrowing.

  “And before you make a wrong move,” Audrey said, “let me warn you that I have a very nice weapon you neglected to retrieve from the cave. Your little ploy about needing Sable’s .22 to help you save her didn’t work, after all. Don't think I’m so helpless, my clumsy young friend. I taught classes in gun safety for ten years.”

  The click of a safety release emphasized Audrey’s words. “So. You kill Bryce and you die. It's as simple as that. There were a lot of things I didn’t notice about you until you left me back there in the dark…or so you thought.”

  Sable remembered the penlight Audrey had used on the bus the night of the wreck. She always carried it with her.

  A look of iron-hard anger flashed across Perry’s face, then was camouflaged once again behind his bland expression. “I should have known. You are a woman of many talents. However, I can still cook better than you.”

  Audrey stepped forward and pressed the barrel of the Detonics against Perry’s neck. “What am I going to have to do to make you drop that gun?”

  He continued to aim the Uzi at Bryce for another long, agonizing moment, then sighed and lowered his arm. The Uzi fell from his hand with a heavy thud. “Don't shoot, Audrey. I'm not that desperate.”

  Murph snatched the weapon from the ground.

  Audrey nudged Perry forward with the barrel of Murph’s gun. “Don’t try anything, Mr. Chadwick. My reaction time won me a couple of awards in shooting contests not too many years ago.”

  “We've got to get Craig to a doctor,” Murph said. “Simmons shot him. I think the Jeep is ready to go. I’ll do a little more chopping on the bridge before we cross it. I don’t want to take any chances on the ice, especially now that we’ve come this far.” He glanced at Sable. “I'm driving.”

  She shook her head. “I’m driving. Craig’s chains should help, but this will be a harrowing ride. I know how to drive on ice.”

  Chapter 32

  Sable grinned at Murph in the rearview mirror as she cautiously maneuvered Craig's Jeep onto the highway and turned toward Cassville. At least someone had managed to salt and gravel the road to help with traction. It would still be a touchy ride.

  Murph was huddled in the back of the vehicle with Perry, who was trussed like a Christmas turkey. Audrey sat in the back seat with Craig's head on her lap. Bryce sat beside Sable in the passenger seat.

  “What’s Otis Boswell up to this time?” Audrey asked.

  On the cautious drive to Cassville, Sable filled Audrey in on the details.

  When they reached town, Sable took Craig, Audrey, and Bryce to the hospital, then drove three blocks to the police station to deliver Perry Chadwick. Sable and Murph told the police their story and promised to stay around for more questioning. The police would have to contact the Missouri Special Crimes Unit to investigate the deaths.

  The FBI was already on its way to pick up Otis Boswell in Oklahoma. It looked as if Perry would be more than willing to testify against his boss to try to save himself. The evidence Sable’s grandfather had left in the safe would be enough to incarcerate Boswell for many long years.

  Sable and Murph stepped outside into the quiet frozen night.

  Murph drew Sable closer and she nestled against him. The warmth of his arm chased away the cold and generated its own kind of comfort. She felt at home close by his side, protected and warm.

  A car whispered by on the road, its headlights turning the limbs of nearby trees into prism reflections. A limb crashed somewhere in the shadows.

  Sable shivered. “This is such a fragile world,” she said. “Everything is breakable—the trees, the road, the people. Especially the people. I feel as if it could all break into a thousand fragments at the slightest movement.”

  “It won't.” Murph’s voice was strong and substantial beside her, resonating in her heart. “God’s creation is more resilient than that. People change, God doesn’t.”

  “It’s going to take a while to learn to depend on that.”

  “It’ll take your whole life,” Murph said. “God works through time to make it right.”

  “I wish I had your strong faith,” she whispered.

  “You’re kidding, right? I’m the one who keeps trying to rely on my own strength. You said it yourself. My macho side keeps trying to take over.”

  She took a deep breath, watching the reflection of lights that outlined the tree limbs. “I guess we’ll both learn, given more time. Meanwhile, I could sure use some encouragement.”

  “In what way?”

  “Oh, a strong friend nearby who can remind me of God’s faithfulness and who can pray with me…you know…pull me out of the deep places and help me dodge bullets…stuff like that.” She fell silent. Was she being too presumptuous?

  “How about that private practice you wanted to build?” Murph asked. “Are you still interested?”

  “Of course. It’s been a dream of mine for years.”

  “Have you considered sharing the load?”

  She looked up into his eyes and understood what he meant and was overjoyed.

  He reached for her hand and brought it up to his lips. Her skin tingled at his touch. “I think if the two of us have a practice together, we won’t starve.”

  “That would mean you plan to return to med school.

  “I want my license. It’s time but it’ll take years.”

  “You know what? You followed me here. Now it’s my turn to follow you. But I want to return here someday. A small-town practice is not a pathway to riches.”

  “I think we’ve already found our riches.” His arm tightened around her. “I want to be wherever you are.”

  He kissed her in the chilly darkness.

  Sneak Peak, Hallowed Halls

  Chapter 1

  Fury surged through Dr. Joy Gilbert like a rifle shot as she shut her office door and yanked the stethoscope from around her neck, suppressing a rebel yell. She stormed to the wide windows and sucked in her breath, ready to throw open the panes and shock the world. But an inquisitive squirrel leapt from one branch to another on a tree behind the clinic.

  With a comical tilt of his head, the furry critter broke the force of her outrage. Joy released her breath and deflated. As a child, she’d helped Mom bottle feed an orphaned gray squirrel, and the little thick-tailed acrobat had often made her laugh.

  Why scare the squirrels because she was angry with the ridiculous accusations of a hostile patient? The man was unbelievable.

  Her intercom buzzed, jerking her back to complete maturity.

  “Dr. Gilbert, honey, you okay in there?” It was Betty, her favorite nurse.

  “Give me a sec—”

  “The boss is on his way to the clinic, sweetie. I want to rush Mr. Bezier out the door before he can waylay Mr. Cline.”

  Joy winced. Along with half the clinic staff and several patients in the waiting room, Betty had clearly heard Frank Bezier berating Joy for her refusal to write him a script for a half-year’s supply of Percocet. He wouldn’t listen when she explained that was illegal. Some people thought they were above the law.

  He had, in fact, loudly accused her of using her physical attributes and other “abilities” to land her job with Weston Cline “since you’re obviously an incompetent physician.” The man was a bully.

  “He’ll call Weston later,” she told Betty. “He has clout.” And Weston’s personal cell phone number.

  “Oh horse dumplings, the man’s a legalized drug junkie and everyone knows it, including the boss. And might I remind you that Mr. Cline hired you for your abi
lity with patients? Not anything else and everybody here knows that, no matter what Mr. Bossypants says.”

  Joy closed her eyes in relief at her nurse’s soothing words. No one in the clinic knew about the pains she’d taken to keep Weston Cline’s hands off of her. All the struggles growing up without a daddy could teach a girl a few hard lessons, so she’d been prepared. Being accused of doing the very thing she’d always sworn never to do before marriage had felt like a stab in her gut with a butcher knife.

  “You could fire him from your service,” Betty said. “Send a letter and he’s out the door in thirty days.”

  “And then I’ll be out the door.” Joy suspected Weston chose to advertise the clinic’s willingness to take chronic pain patients in the first place because it would ensure a fast growth rate. And it certainly had. “The boss wants Bezier happy.”

  “If you go out the door, so will I, and so will half the staff. Mr. Cline knows better.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “You don’t want the state medical board breathing down your neck for being overly generous with controlled substances,” Betty reminded her.

  Joy turned her back to the desk. She refused to become a legal pusher. Where had her brain been the day she agreed to work for a man who wanted her to put an emphasis on pain management?

  No, wait, she hadn’t been thinking with her brain last year. Weston Cline had the charisma of a world dictator, and for a short time she’d allowed herself to be dazed by his sweet words and the promise of a successful career—particularly after Zack broke their engagement.

  If only Weston wasn’t so damaged. If only his character had been as solid as she’d believed it to be in the beginning. Over the months she’d realized that the man she’d thought he was had concealed his broken character by utilizing his dynamic personality. He had plenty of that. His male magnetism that had nearly been her undoing.

  Mom taught Joy long ago that sweet words and a handsome face might draw a woman to a man, but she’d better be smart enough to hold him at arm’s length until she could see the character beneath. That took longer.

  While watching Weston promote the clinic to the public, Joy had discovered that for him the game was all about making people believe in the magic of narcotics. Money was his narcotic. He’d failed the character test for Joy.

  The hum of familiar voices drifted through her closed door. There was a cry of a child and the clatter of a computer keyboard, the laughter of a couple of the staff members in the break room.

  “Dr. Gilbert?” Her door opened, the bottom of it brushing across carpet. She caught a whiff of Lindsey Baker’s spicy perfume. The girl needed to be educated about patient allergies and invasion of doctor privacy.

  While Joy’s stomach growled because of a missed lunch three hours ago, she reminded herself that her hometown was downriver between Frankenstein and Hermann, Missouri. Not that far, really, though it seemed a world away.

  “Dr. Gilbert, we’ve got Sarah Miller,” Lindsey said. “Again.”

  Joy turned immediately. Good. A real patient. She reached for the file Lindsey held out to her.

  “She’s in Two,” Lindsey said in that timid eager-to-please voice of a new-hire. This one was especially young, with rich auburn curls and friendly dark brown eyes.

  Weston encouraged an attractive appearance among the clinic’s staff members.

  Once again drawn into the milieu of work, Joy glanced at the information on the clipboard. She was halfway down the hall, paging through the three-inch-thick stack of notes and test results when a pair of polished black wingtips stepped into her field of vision. She looked up into the cobalt gaze of her employer.

  She should have been able to sense his arrival by the suddenly hushed voices of staff, and the adoring—or possibly fearful—glances from every woman in view, depending on their status with him. Employees feared or worshiped him. Patients who recognized his city-wide fame from the billboards practically genuflected at his feet. The man had been featured in a regional magazine recently for taking his family fortune and doubling it. Who besides Joy didn’t worship the wealthy?

  She’d overheard a couple of women arguing in the waiting room one day over whether he looked more like a younger version of Hugh Jackman or Gerard Butler. Had Joy really once shared their admiration?

  “Weston, hi. What brings you here in the middle of the week?” She instinctively moved her hand to cover the name on the file she carried—Sarah Miller was a pro bono case. He would make no money from this one.

  “Doesn’t a man have a right to check on his business investment from time to time?” The intentionally seductive depth of his voice and the gentle expression in his gaze assured her he was presently relaxed. “I heard you haven’t taken a lunch break. Why don’t we have Lindsey bring you a Reuben from the deli? You can join me in my office while you eat and catch me up on today’s progress.”

  “That would be great if I had time but we’re a little swamped right now.” That should thrill him. “Rain check?”

  He glanced at the file in Joy’s hand. “After this one?”

  “Three more.”

  He reached down and nudged her hand from the name. He’d taken Joy to task more than once about “wasting time with non-payers.” She could almost feel the temperature drop in the room a couple of degrees.

  At thirty-nine, Weston had flecks of white at the temples of his night black hair, a neatly trimmed beard and pinpoints of quicksilver in his blue eyes when he was upset.

  That quicksilver gave a momentary flash. “Joy.”

  “This one’s in pain.”

  He tapped the file folder. “This one’s a hypochondriac.”

  She glanced around and lowered her voice. “I’m the physician on this case.” Since when did he get his degree? She swallowed. Had to remain calm. “I have some unique cases that—”

  “As you’ve pointed out to me in the past, every case is unique.”

  “This clinic is doing so well after less than a year. It’s not hurting the bottom line to help someone every now and then.” She held her breath.

  His gaze softened but remained on her. The troubled questions in his eyes had haunted her for months. As Bezier had only just finished trumpeting to the whole clinic, Weston had hinted from time to time that he hoped for more than an employee relationship from her when he brought her to Kansas City. At one point, when they met after clinic hours to discuss strategies, she’d almost weakened. Why save herself for marriage when the only man she’d ever loved had broken their engagement? When it seemed the whole world believed in the joys of matrimony without the contract—when her own mother had obviously weakened at one point long enough to become pregnant with her out of wedlock—why had she pushed back so hard every time a man tried to push her into bed?

  Just in time she’d realized that no woman could give Weston what he truly needed, because the great Weston Cline, sole heir to the Cline family fortune, had a heart so wounded he could barely function emotionally. Losing a child could do that to a parent.

  Weston’s ex-wife, Sylvia, claimed his heart was forged in ice and stone, but every so often Joy saw something different in his expression, heard it in his voice, sometimes in his words. There was no denying he’d been a lonely child, and she knew about the tragedy of his younger brother’s death when Weston was eleven.

  That might explain why his relationship with his mother was always so strained, but Joy had stopped herself from following that rabbit trail before becoming too involved with his private life. That could give him the wrong impression. Sometimes she really did follow in her mother’s old habits and attempt to soothe the woes of the world. It wouldn’t be wise to encourage Weston to get the wrong impression.

  “I have a patient, Weston.” She tried to step around him.

  He didn’t move.

  She pressed between him and the hallway wall, retaining as much dignity as possible. How she wished this man didn’t control her life so completely, as Mom had
warned her he would.

  Sometimes it seemed as if Molly Gilbert had ways of reaching across the distance to make her daughter pay for the choices she’d made that Mom—and by implication, God—had not condoned.

  She entered the exam room, shutting Weston out so she could focus on one of her favorite patients. “How are you doing, Sarah?”

  Pale of hair and eyes, Sarah Miller met Joy’s gaze with a tentative nod.

  A wise professor had once taught that if physicians would listen longer to the patients, those very patients could provide missing puzzle pieces for their own diagnoses. Oh, for the luxury of time. Joy loved listening. But with Sarah, Joy had realized many weeks ago that it was necessary to know more than the information on the chart.

  “Haven’t been sleeping?” Joy sat on the chair in front of the computer and studied the notes the nurse had made.

  Sarah looked up and shook her head. Today her eyes were more gray than green, a sure sign she didn’t feel well, though her vitals were solid. Her translucent skin was paler than usual, her mouth more rigid. She put Joy in mind of a prisoner who hadn’t seen the sun in years.

  “What’s wrong, Sarah? Betty said you wouldn’t talk to her about why you’re here.”

  “That’s because last time I was here I think someone told the rest of the staff that I asked for a colonoscopy. They were all snickering at me from behind the Plexiglas when I walked out the door.” There was reproach in her soft voice.

  Joy knew Betty wouldn’t do that, but after being fired from the services of two other physicians, Sarah was gun shy.

  “Tell me what’s going on with you today,” Joy asked, leaning forward, keeping eye contact. “Is your stomach still causing you trouble?”

  “Yes, but that’s not what I came for.” With a sigh, Sarah pointed to her nose. “Could this be melanoma?”

  Joy nudged Sarah’s finger away and examined the worrisome spot. It was tiny, with even color and edges.

  “Can you tell, Dr. Gilbert?” Sarah’s breath sounds were irregular, with underlying fear—irrational, erratic, intense—that had characterized her visits since she’d become a patient here seven months ago. “I know how fast those things can grow.”