by Hinze, Vicki
By the time Paul finished the call, he was certain of a few things. Madison was deeply attracted to Grant Deaver and didn’t like being attracted to him. Deaver apparently was attracted to her, too, and didn’t seem to like it any better than Madison. Those two developments meant this whole situation could get even more complicated. And Della’s stalker clearly knew she wasn’t in North Bay. With the rapidity of the attacks having stopped on a dime when she left, the stalker had to know she was out of reach. That was the good news. It meant for the moment, Della was safe, and so were those around her. The bad news was he’d be working double time to find her, and if he wasn’t Talbot or Dayton or Gary Crawford, Leo Dawson or Jeff, then they didn’t have a clue who he was or what to watch to see him coming.
On Thursday, Madison reported that Detective Cray had spoken to Jeff. He was at his cabin in the mountains and phoned his Christmas bride, and she’d told him the detective needed to talk with him. That he’d called Cray seemed to relieve Della, which worried Paul. She said she wasn’t in love with the man anymore, but was that true? Not that Paul thought she’d lie. But she had shut out all emotion for a long time.
In her situation, if she hadn’t shut down and stayed shut down, she would cry, and she hadn’t cried. What would happen if she opened the door and let her feelings back in? Would she not love Jeff then? Would she love Paul?
His stomach curled. He wanted to know; he really did. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to know badly enough to find out—not just yet. Every day she seemed more peaceful, happier than he’d ever seen her. And as much as he wanted to settle things between them, provided they settled well, he wanted her to enjoy that happiness more.
Della had been miserable for a long, long time.
And he was still at war himself. God stood front and center in his life. Della locked God out of her life and showed no hint of letting Him back in. What if she came to love Paul? At some point, they’d wish to marry. Married, they’d become one. But they’d still be divided: one who believed and one who didn’t. What did that do to them spiritually? A house divided...
On Friday, Emma, his assistant, ran into a challenge at Florida Vet Net and left a message on the office answering machine for Paul to call the office as soon as possible.
He and Della drove the twenty miles to Walmart and he bought a prepaid phone, then they returned to his truck and he called his office. “What’s up, Emma?”
“We had a peculiar visitor this morning. He was definitely on a fishing expedition.”
“What did he want?” Paul backed out of the parking slot and headed for the exit.
“To talk to you about a baby bottle.”
The one in Della’s fridge? Code for the Baby Killer? Paul couldn’t tell Emma that. “Did he leave a number? Anything?”
“He wouldn’t. Said he’d call you back at eleven o’clock tomorrow.”
It was a trap. Paul knew it. “What’d he look like?”
“Just a normal guy. Kind of thin, short brown hair. He had on sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes. Five-ten or so, I’d guess. Maybe 180 pounds—big biceps and blue shoes.”
A chill crawled up Paul’s back. “Blue shoes?”
“Yeah. Weird because they weren’t navy blue. They were lighter and almost neon. You don’t often see a grown man wearing neon-blue shoes. In fact, I’ve never seen a grown man wearing neon-blue aquatic shoes away from the water.”
Just like the man mowing the lawn. Della’s stalker. “Call Detective Cray and get with a sketch artist. Let’s get a visual on this guy.”
“You think he’s your man?”
“Sounds like it. It’s either him or someone close to him.”
“I wish I’d known that when he was in here. Conking Della in the head...I’d have wiped the floor with him.”
Emma might have. She was a big woman, and a black belt. No one messed with her. “I wish you had.” The guy had done worse than conk Della, but for some reason that ranked higher on Emma’s list of objections than him bombing Della’s garage and trying to bomb Paul’s SUV.
“I’ll phone Cray. Don’t you even think about coming here tomorrow to take that call. The detective can work out something.”
“I won’t.” Paul had expected some move to flush them out—just not this one to his office. He figured the stalker’s move would come through Lost, Inc. “Later.”
“Can I reach you at this number?”
“No, Emma. Sorry.”
“No problem, boss. But while I have, you, I have a couple questions.”
“Shoot.”
She ran through her questions on some of their current cases, and Paul answered them, then ended the call.
“What’s happened?” Della looked over at him.
“Mr. Blue Shoes showed up at Vet Net.” He passed the phone. “Yank the—”
“Battery,” she finished, extracting it and putting the back cover back on the phone. Removing the battery was the ideal way to prevent anyone from tracking them. “You’re kidding about Blue Shoes, right? Why would he show up at Vet Net?”
“Not kidding, and no idea.” Heading north, Paul checked the rearview. No one was following them.
“We need to let Madison know—but not with this phone.” Della lifted it.
“Put the battery back in.”
“You’re not calling—”
“No.”
She replaced the battery and handed him the phone. He dialed.
“Florida Vet Net. This is Emma. How may I help you?”
“Have the office swept for listening devices.”
“On it, boss.”
“Did Blue Shoes go anywhere else other than the reception area?”
“Restroom, before we talked.”
A cold chill swept through Paul’s chest, set the roof of his mouth to tingling. “Evacuate the building immediately and then do a thorough sweep. I’ll call in an hour to see if you’ve got an all clear.”
“Yes, sir.”
Paul disconnected, passed the phone to Della.
She took out the battery. “You think he’s planted explosives in your office?”
“I don’t know. But I wouldn’t be surprised. Would you?”
“No.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “We really do need to let Madison know about this.”
Paul braked to a stop, turned around and headed back to the store for another phone. “Yeah, we do.” This time, he’d buy a couple of spares.
* * *
He entered the motel room, toed off the neon-blue shoes and sat down in the bedside chair. Emma had gotten a good look at his shoes. He’d seen to that. And by now, she’d no doubt contacted Paul Mason, who had no doubt told Della, and they had notified Detective Cray. He smiled at the ceiling. Likely they’d talk his visit to Florida Vet Net to death—at least until... Boom!
He heard the explosion in his mind. Eager anticipation slithered through his chest. Paul Mason would be devastated that his bleeding-heart organization lay in ruin. It was unfortunate that he wouldn’t be in ruin with it. A few months rebuilding, some cash he could well afford to lose—the loss would be no big deal. But killing Emma? The guilt for her death Mason would carry for a long, long time. Likely until he drew his last breath.
Too bad it wasn’t Della, but all in good time. Mason had pulled the disappearing act, and until he discovered where Della was stashed, he had to compromise. No way would Mason take her to his ranch. For now, Emma would do.
He snagged a cold drink from the little fridge and popped the top. He’d done a lot of investigating on Paul Mason. No dirt, not that he couldn’t manufacture some if the need arose. Mason was a good guy by all accounts, but hooking up with Della...he’d sealed his fate.
Drinking down a long swallow that cooled the throat, he belched. Della would beg, plead and cry. Not that it would make any difference. He opened the closet doors, peered deep into the closet to the photos taped to the back wall. Photos of Della smiling. Della in her wedding gown, in her uniform. Della hol
ding Danny. Della, Della, Della.
She wasn’t a fool, but she was not wise enough to battle him and win.
Rage boiled in his stomach. In so many photos she looked content and happy. Outrageous. She had no right to be happy. None. Seeing her smile fed his fury. The desire to destroy her burned strong.
He stood facing the closet, squeezed his hands into fists at his sides and shut his eyes tight, struggling and fighting the temptation to destroy anything and everything in reach. The temptation nearly buckled him, nearly sliced him in two.
Do it. Cut them. Do it.
He reached to the desktop where he’d placed a host of personal items. His knife lay there beside its sheath, its silver blade gleaming.
Cut them. Cut them. Cut them...
The desire burned like wildfire in his belly. He reached for the knife...and stopped. He couldn’t do it. He needed those photographs.
But he didn’t need them intact.
He opened his eyes, grabbed the knife and slashed out her perfect mouth, then her perfect eyes and then his. Danny’s eyes. Accusing eyes. Eyes filled with blame and disappointment. Eyes that knew the truth.
Frantically, he sliced and carved until all their eyes were gone and they could no longer see. He backed out of the closet and studied his work, his body drenched in sweat, blood pounding through his veins.
Better. Much better.
The disfigured photos would lay blame at the perfect door....
* * *
Paul removed the battery from a throwaway phone and looked across the kitchen at Della. Her hair was pulled back and banded, and her face freshly scrubbed. In loose jeans and a T-shirt, she looked so carefree and amazingly serene. His heart sank. Boy, did he hate to mess that up! “Della?”
At the sink, she rinsed a metal mixing bowl and looked back at him. “Yeah?”
“That was Madison on the phone.”
She stiffened, leaned into the counter and stopped still, then waited.
“Cray called in Beech. His bomb squad found two explosive devices at Florida Vet Net. They carry the same signature as the one that detonated in your garage. No trip wires, though. Both were on timers. They were set to explode at twelve-eighteen. Mrs. Renault says twelve-eighteen is significant to you.”
She paled. The metal bowl slipped from her fingers and clanged in the sink.
“Della?” He walked around the table and over to her. “Why is it significant?”
A shield slid down over her face, removing all expression, and she hid behind it. “That’s the time of Danny’s death.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“Are you okay?”
Stiffening, she straightened her shoulders and reached for the bowl. Her hands were shaking. She was shaking all over. “Nobody was hurt, right?”
Paul wanted to take her in his arms and make the hurt go away, but right now that wasn’t what she needed. She needed normalcy. “No, nobody was hurt.” He handed her a fresh dishcloth. Began clearing the table. “Emma’s pretty ticked. She’s threatening to go on a one-woman crusade to find Mr. Blue Shoes and cook his goose. Mrs. Renault is having a word with her now.” They both knew what that meant—ear blistering, in progress. None of them could afford the luxury of anger. They had to remain calm, collected, to win.
She dried the metal bowl. “Maybe she should let her. I’ve seen Emma in action at a martial arts exhibition. She’s pretty formidable.”
She was regaining her balance. His own was slipping, and an odd warning took root. “Something’s not right in this.”
“No, it’s not.” She put the bowl into the lower cabinet and wiped her hands on the dish towel. “He’s a professional and this isn’t just a sloppy error. It’s a deliberate diversion.”
“Astute as always.” He popped the leftovers into the fridge and closed the door. “Can you pin down anything specific?”
“Why would he tie up the bomb squad unless—” She gasped. “He never meant for those bombs to detonate. He wanted me to know the time. He wanted me to feel guilty for something else.”
“A second set of bombs?”
“Call Beech.”
The warning signaled stronger. Paul shoved the battery into a phone and dialed, and when Beech answered, Paul explained their suspicions, then added, “Check Vet Net again and then check Lost, Inc. He’s playing us, Beech. You watch your back.”
Paul ended the call and removed the battery.
Della tapped her thigh, signaling Jake to come to her. He didn’t hesitate. No surprise there. She spoiled him rotten. Bending, she stroked his scruff. Her hand wasn’t shaking as badly. A streak of jealousy shot through Paul. Playing second fiddle to an ex was bad, but to his own dog? He stifled a groan. Why not him? Why Jake?
Get your nose back into joint and think—see through her eyes. Jake won’t turn on her. Dogs are notoriously loyal. Paul could. Of course he wouldn’t, but after Jeff, she couldn’t know that unequivocally. Jake was safe. Dogs don’t cast blame and they don’t leave.
A spark of encouragement ignited in him. That first step was the hardest. A leap. From there, it would just take patience and baby steps to get from Jake to him.
But what if she took those steps? He could turn on her. Not literally but figuratively. Faith was extremely significant to him, and Della was neck-deep in a spiritual crisis from which she might or might not recover. Losing a child. Feeling responsible—rightly or wrongly—for that loss. It impacted her deeply every day of her life in every way, including her faith. How could he not worry about it?
“Well?” Della prodded him.
“Beech is checking the buildings. He’ll let us know what he finds.”
She tilted her head, studied him. “What’s wrong?”
How could he answer that? If he admitted he was experiencing his own faith crisis? Surely God wouldn’t put love for her in his heart unless it was right.
But he’d seen too many “right” relationships crash and burn to have any confidence that theirs was immune.
“Paul?” She stood up and asked again, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He grabbed a sponge and wiped down the table. “I’m fine.”
“You’re fine.”
That he’d used the one word he found most objectionable hit him. “I mean—”
Della laughed hard and hugged him, planted a kiss on his cheek. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“Neither can I.” He circled her with his arms. “But if this is my reward, I’ll say it often.”
Jake barked and Warny cleared his throat.
Della backed out of Paul’s arms. “Warny.”
His face turned red. “I need some chocolate sauce for my ice cream.”
The man’s timing couldn’t have been worse. Another ten seconds and they’d have been kissing. Kissing. Disappointment rammed through him.
Wordlessly, Paul went to the fridge and got the sauce.
NINE
Water rippled down the stream.
To the soothing sounds of it, Della sat down on the sun-warmed blanket and lifted containers of food from an old wicker basket she’d found in the ranch house storage room. “I feel guilty,” she told Paul, who dropped down beside her.
“Why?”
“It’s Sunday.” She shoved back her hair. “If not for me, you’d be at church.”
“Going to church right now isn’t safe for us or for the others there.” He passed her a napkin, then poured two glasses of tea from a stainless thermos. “Especially not after I blew off that phone meeting yesterday with Mr. Blue Shoes. Beech never found any other devices at Vet Net, but your stalker’s got to be looking for some way to get revenge.”
“Probably. But the church would be a bad place to do it.”
“More insulting maybe, which is why Cray and Beech are making sure there are no surprises during the service.” Paul took a sip of tea and glanced over at the water. “There’ll be plenty of time for us to go to church together.”
Clearly, he was testing the waters on that. He did frequently, inviting her to attend with him, but she always politely refused. Sometimes they met afterward for lunch, sometimes not. Since he, too, was acknowledging the shift in their relationship, it was only right to set him straight. “I can’t do that, Paul.”
“Can’t do what?” He cranked back his neck so the sun shone on his face.
Deliberately avoiding making eye contact with her was what he was doing. She staved off a frown. “Go to church.”
“Of course you can.” He reached into the basket and pulled out a container of potato salad. “Anyone can.”
“I can’t, not without being a hypocrite.”
He passed her a glass. “Your call, of course, and I respect your decision. That goes without saying. But...”
“You don’t understand.”
“Not really, no.” He smiled. “I guess I don’t know as much as I thought I did about where your head is on things.”
“You know plenty.” Again he’d asked and not demanded. She loved that about him. He didn’t want to judge her, only to understand her. Admiring that, she said, “When what happened, well, happened with Danny and Jeff, my son and my marriage weren’t the only casualties. You know that better than anyone except me.”
He nodded, waited.
She liked that, too. His patience in giving her time to think and work through what she wanted to say and the way she wanted to say it. “I stopped believing in justice, except for that we make and choose to embrace ourselves, and in God.” She took a sip of her drink. “You won’t understand this, but—”
“I’ll really try, Della. You have my word on that.”
Such a good man. “I know you will. It’s one of many things I love about you.”
The look in his eyes turned tender.
That was another thing. Mentally shaking herself, she refocused. “The God I believed in would have protected my child and me. He didn’t. So He can’t be there.” She was half tempted to say He might exist because He’d provided her with a surrogate family and Paul, but she didn’t. That would create false hope in him on something she’d considered, not adopted.
