Dangerous Conditions (Protectors At Heart Book 4)

by Jenna Kernan

  “What are you doing, Paige?” Connor asked.

  She gave him a blank stare.

  “You tried this. We all were against it, but you told Logan everything and he forgot it as soon as you told him. How many times?”

  “Six,” she lied.

  “More like ten.”

  “He’s doing better,” she insisted. “No lapses in short-term memory.”

  “Great. So what if your daughter calls for help and Logan thinks it’s the television again?”

  The memory made her stomach clench. Shortly after he returned to his father’s home, Paige had been visiting with Lori, then ten months old. Paige had stepped out to retrieve a package from the mailbox, leaving Lori happily perched on Logan’s lap. When she returned, she heard her daughter wailing from outside and ran into the house to find Lori on the floor, a gash on her chin. Logan stood before the lounge chair pointing the remote at the television as he vainly tried to turn off the volume. He thought their baby’s howls of pain were on the television.

  “It was too soon,” she said.

  “It always will be,” Connor replied. “You should listen to us this time.”

  Before they reached the old white farmhouse, they passed the funeral home where Dr. Sullivan’s body likely now lay in the basement on an aluminum table. He should be finishing up at the lab and heading home for supper. She shook her head in despair. The authorities would have to do an autopsy. That thought gave her the shivers. She checked the connection on her safety belt again.

  “What did you tell Logan about today?”

  “Tell him? Nothing.”

  “That’s good. Just upset him.”

  While she appreciated his concern for his little brother, Connor was the one who seemed upset. His face was red and he kept dragging his fingers through the hair on the top of his head. Connor looked much like Logan with just a little thickening at his waist and hair that was lighter and noticeably thinner. His skin was ruddy, and tiny burst blood vessels in his cheeks pointed to a drinking problem. Too many meals alone at the pub and too many evenings alone in his big, empty house, he had once told her. If that was supposed to make her feel guilty, it didn’t. No one told him to buy that B and B.

  “How did you hear about Dr. Sullivan?” Connor asked.

  “Lou told us.”

  “Lou Reber?”

  She nodded.

  “I heard from Freda. We were going over the agenda for the board meeting when Ursula called.”

  Freda Kubr was Ursula Sullivan’s sister, a village councilor and the administrative assistant to Principal Unger.

  “And Lou told you how he died?” he asked.

  “Hit-and-run.”

  “Did you see Dr. Sullivan today?” he asked.

  “Not today.”

  This began to feel like an interrogation, as if Connor was constable, and it made her uneasy. Why was he so interested in these details?

  “I’m sure the state police will want to speak to you. They told me they’ll be interviewing all his coworkers.”

  “Why? Wasn’t it an accident?” she asked. She had her suspicions, but she wanted to see his reaction.

  “That hasn’t been determined yet.”

  How did he know that?

  He swiped a hand over his mouth and then returned his hand to the wheel. She’d never seen him this jumpy.

  “Did he say anything to you or was he behaving strangely?”

  “Not as strangely as you’re behaving.” She twisted in her seat to face him. “What is this about, Connor?”

  “We’ve never had a case of manslaughter in Hornbeck before. It is going to be in the papers. Most people who live in this county don’t even know we exist, and the village likes it that way. I know Rathburn-Bramley does. It’s why they picked us for the plant.”

  It was true, Paige knew, that even people living in the same county didn’t know that this little turn in the highway was a village. Both the railroads and the major highways had left them behind years ago. This was an advantage to a company who produced controlled substances. Hiding in among the farms and hills made perfect sense.

  Connor banged his hand on the steering wheel. “They’ll mention where he works.”

  “No secret where he works. Is there?”

  “Your company prefers a very low profile. Can’t see it from the road, so the tourists and visitors certainly don’t know it’s here. Draw the wrong people, it gets out what you all are cookin’ down there.” He glanced at her. “You know exactly what they produce.”

  “I should. I test every product on every run.”

  “Well, then you also know that opiates are a target. They don’t want to be on the map.”

  Her company also produced fentanyl and a variety of intravenous drugs and gases used by anesthesiologists. Most had a high black-market value and were favorites of some addicts. Ironically, they also produced innocuous medical supplies like aerosol disinfectant spray and gel hand sanitizer.

  “Well, they can’t just pretend he wasn’t killed,” said Paige, addressing Connor’s concerns with sarcasm.

  “Your employer is requesting he be listed as unemployed. His widow has agreed.”

  “That’s sick.” And a shock. She could understand the company’s desire for a low profile, but this seemed to take it too far.

  “They offered her money. A lot of it, above and beyond what she’d get with the company’s life insurance.”

  “But they think this was an accident? Right?”

  “Maybe. But his ID tags are missing.”

  Her eyes widened. Had he been killed for his access key?

  “But they can’t get to the manufacturing area with that and they can’t get past security. They check our photo against the tag.”

  “What about after hours?”

  “Tag is time sensitive. Six a.m. to six p.m. Plus, you need a special card to access the finished goods area. After hours you need an escort. One of the security team. They’ll deactivate his access. I’m sure they already have done so.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. She shouldn’t be revealing security measures, even to Logan’s brother.

  “Sheriff and the state police are looking for his tags and the vehicle that hit him. Anyone you know want to hurt Dr. Sullivan?”

  “No! Of course not. Everybody loved him.” She felt a jab in her belly as she recognized that she was already referring to her friend in the past tense.

  Connor made a face.

  “What?”

  “I overheard Lou speaking to Dale Owens at the funeral home. Lou told him that your firm was investigating Sullivan. Something out at the plant was going missing. They were getting ready to fire him.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” She again peered at Connor. He seemed to have done a fair amount of nosing around already. Why was he so interested in this? Was it just because he was concerned for the town’s reputation?

  “They were onto him.”

  “He’d never steal from his employer.”

  “Maybe it was intellectual property. Like a process or formula. Could he have known they were onto him?”

  “Are you suggesting he stepped in front of a vehicle and then stole his own ID tag as a cover-up?”

  “Of course not.” His hand raked his hair again. “It’s just, we’ve never had a thing like this happen here. I helped bring that plant here, Paige, and I feel responsible for it and any trouble that comes because of this sort of industry. Could have been a bad drug deal or something.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “We are a peaceful village, Paige. Cows, cornfields and...”

  “Opiates,” she finished.

  Chapter Five

  Paige got home to find her mother cooking dinner, which was unusual. Her mom had made it very clear when Paige moved back in
with her that she was going to raise her own daughter and that meant housework, errands and making her child’s meals. Her only concession had been picking up Lori after school because Hornbeck Central School did not have an after-hours keeper program.

  “Where’s Lori?” asked Paige.

  Her mother continued stirring white sauce on the stovetop as she half turned to speak to Paige.

  “She’s out back making a leaf pile and then jumping into it. Malory is watching her from the porch.”

  Paige did not think that Malory, her mother’s long-haired cat, was an adequate babysitter, but a glance out the side window showed her daughter tunneling through dry leaves in the spotlight of the backyard floodlight.

  Paige set her satchel on a chair at the breakfast table and removed her coat and scarf. Then she folded into the adjoining chair. Her mother brought her a bottle of scotch and a small juice glass and set it before her.

  She gaped and then met her mother’s serious gaze.

  “You heard?”

  “Whole village heard. That ogre of a company let you go a few minutes early today?”

  Paige lifted the glass. The strong, distinctive aroma reached her before she took a sip and grimaced. The liquid burned all the way down.

  “I took some personal time.”

  “You should take tomorrow. Those pills can wait a day.”

  “I don’t make pills.” She set the scotch aside and wiped her watering eyes.

  “I know what you do. I paid for some of that fancy education, remember?”

  It was impossible to forget.

  “Though I expect our constable will have the culprit arrested in no time. That is if he doesn’t mistake the church bell for the fire truck again.”

  One of Logan’s early blunders was to head over to the fire station at noon his first day when he thought he heard the siren. It had turned out to be the bells that the Methodist church rang every weekday at noon and at ten a.m. on Sundays.

  Paige ignored her mother’s jab at Logan. She was used to them.

  “I’ve been over to see Ursula this afternoon,” said her mother.

  “How is she?”

  “She looks terrible. But her sister is there, and Freda told me that they are accepting callers tonight and tomorrow.”

  “Tonight?”

  She was surprised. They’d only just learned, and Paige thought they’d still be processing the shock.

  “Freda said that Ursula does not want to be alone. The church is organizing casseroles to be delivered each day. Mine is tomorrow, chicken tetrazzini casserole. I think I won’t add the cayenne. I don’t know if the Sullivans like spicy food.”

  Paige’s hopes of dinner vanished.

  “I’m making enough for us, too. I should bring some to Albert, feeding that man-child.” Albert Lynch was the widower father of Connor and Logan. And the man-child, she assumed, was his brain-damaged son.

  “Logan is not a man-child.” Paige’s voice was sharp. “He is just as smart as before.”

  “Hmm. Then why does he talk so s-l-o-w?” she asked, drawing out the last word.

  Paige knew exactly how smart she and Logan both were, with her breakup with Logan after she discovered he’d reenlisted and then sleeping with him again her senior year in college before he’d shipped out. Nobody in Hornbeck knew he’d been to see her at school. She’d been so angry at him and scared for him and it had just happened.

  Nine months later Lori had happened. She’d picked the name to honor Logan. Hoped they’d have a chance at a second start after she finished her undergraduate schooling. His plan had not included being wounded and nearly dying. And hers didn’t include giving up on him. Their families had convinced her to stop telling Logan about Lori’s paternity when he couldn’t remember anything new past a few hours back then. She’d agreed, but she had continued to bring Lori for visits. Seeing their baby brightened Logan. Only she believed that Logan could handle the responsibility of caring for a daughter. As it turned out, she’d been wrong.

  She’d ignored them and Lori now had a scar on her chin that served as a constant reminder that Paige was not always the best judge where Logan was concerned. Her emotions and hopes were too tied up in his being able to love her and their daughter to allow her to be unbiased. Now she feared trying and failing again with him. She’d given him time, years to recover. He didn’t forget things anymore. His speech had improved, and he was working now. It seemed dishonest not to again tell Logan about their relationship and his daughter. She’d have to tell them both eventually, especially when it seemed Logan no longer forgot things. She’d been waiting for Lori to be old enough to understand that her father had a TBI. Was an eight-year-old capable of comprehending this?

  Maybe his father would agree with her that it was time.

  “If you weren’t so stubborn, you’d...” Her mother’s words trailed off.

  Paige tried to ignore the urge to ask her mother to finish her sentence, knowing that she wouldn’t like what she had to say, and failed.

  “I’d what?”

  “You would stop following Logan like a puppy and pay a little more attention to Logan’s older brother. Connor’s been sweet on you for ages and he’s asked you, I don’t know how many times, to go out with him. He’s got a thriving business and a political position. He has that big house that I’m sure he bought because he knows you love it.”

  “That isn’t true.” But even as she said it, Paige suddenly feared it was true. “Logan is Lori’s father.”

  Her mother sniffed. “Who can’t tell a baby from a remote control,” she muttered as she continued the rhythmic stirring.

  Connor was the smart choice; any of the single, employed professional men at Rathburn-Bramley would be. She’d been asked. She’d said no.

  Because she was an idiot. Because she didn’t love Connor. She loved the man who had left her behind. That man had not come back. As for Connor, fondness and guilt were poor foundations for a relationship.

  Paige thumped her elbows on the table and cradled her forehead in her hands.

  “Lori deserves a father, Paige. One qualified to care for her.”

  She pressed her mouth closed to keep from lashing out. Her daughter did deserve a father and had one. It was Paige’s decision to keep them apart. And it was a decision she reconsidered daily as Logan improved.

  “He’s not going to remember you, Paige. He’s just not and he never will. And even if he did, do you want to be married to a man who earns his living at the benevolence of others? He’s the village idiot.”

  Paige pressed her hands flat on the table and rose to her feet.

  “Mother, if you ever call him that again, I will take Lori and that job offer in South Carolina.”

  “Might be better for you if you did. Better than seeing you mooning around after that boy.”

  Paige gaped. She’d never expected her mother to call her bluff.

  “Mom, is that what you want? For us to go?”

  “I want what I’ve always wanted—what is best for you. And that boy never was and never will be.”

  * * *

  LOGAN FINISHED DIRECTING the rush of vehicles leaving the company lot and funneling up to Main to then head toward Mill Creek to the east or Ouleout to the west. After he stopped back in his office to lock up, he headed toward his blue 2004 Ford pickup. Then he made his way home. The temperature had dropped, and he worried that it might rain on Saturday. That would put a damper on the Harvest Festival. If this kept up, they could even have snow on their big day.

  Instead of stopping at his home, he passed it and turned down Cemetery Road, crossing the West Branch of the Raquette River and then heading along River Street. Dr. Sullivan had lived in a Dutch Colonial home just outside the village. He had planned to only drive by but found cars and trucks parked in the drive and on the lawn. The porch was lit up
and callers spilled across the porch and down the steps.

  He parked across the road, off the shoulder, and headed over to the property. Logan tipped his hat and murmured hellos to the familiar faces and didn’t even try to focus on one speaker or another. With so many folks conversing at once, he just couldn’t identify who was talking. He passed Mr. Sinclair Park, who stood on the steps. He knew that Paige’s department reported to him, because she’d once pointed him out as her boss’s boss. He worked at the plant, something in production, and had moved to Hornbeck soon after being hired about the same time Logan started as a constable.

  “Logan,” said Mr. Park. “Paying your respects?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s a good man.” Park slapped him on the upper arm as if he were a draft horse.

  Logan stepped in from the cold and into the bright hallway. He removed his hat and gave it a spin before unzipping his constable jacket. He had intended to find Mrs. Sullivan, seeing her in deep conversation with her sister, Freda, in the living room, but then he spotted both Sullivan’s fourteen-year-old son, Steven, and eleven-year-old daughter, Valerie, sitting with their chins on their knees on the steps leading to the second floor. Instead of the familiar basketball shorts and sneakers, Steven wore gray slacks and a black shirt, and Valerie was wearing a forest-green skirt and white blouse. He’d never seen them in this sort of attire.

  Steven’s chin lifted when he spotted Logan, assistant coach of his travel basketball team.

  “Coach,” he said, his expression hopeful.

  Logan changed direction and headed up the stairs, pausing to sit two steps below the kids. He placed his hat on the same step.

  “I’m sorry about your dad, Steven, Valerie. He was a really good coach.”