Dead Too Soon: A Thriller (Val Ryker series Book 3)

by Ann Voss Peterson

  “Can we talk about this privately?”

  Val wasn’t a jealous woman. She didn’t want to be a jealous woman. But at that moment, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to slap Lund, punch Chandler, or slink behind the kegs of Miller Lite in Nikki’s storeroom and curl up in the fetal position. “Don’t manage me, Lund.”

  “Then listen.”

  “She kills people. It’s who she is.”

  “And she’s on our side.”

  “You guys know I can read lips,” Chandler called to them.

  Val turned her back on the woman. “Is that what it comes down to? One team against another? Hess recruited Burke, so we counter with Chandler?”

  “Who’s Burke?” Harry asked.

  “Chandler can help us get Grace back.” Lund nodded as he said the words, as if he could will her to believe. “And you were worried about ending Hess. So let her do it.”

  Of course. Taking a life was nothing to Chandler. She would kill Hess without thought, without question. “I might not be police chief anymore, but I’m not hiring a hitman.”

  “Maybe instead of throwing gender-specific labels around, we should ask Chandler what she thinks about all this,” Chandler said, right behind Val.

  Val jumped. She hadn’t even noticed the woman’s approach. Val glared at her. “This conversation is private.”

  “Haven’t you heard? Privacy doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “Meow,” Harry said, making a claw out of his good hand and pawing the air. “This has got to be giving you a chubby, Lump.”

  Lund sighed. “Harry, can you go do something, anything, else for a minute?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’m here on my dime,” Chandler said. “And I haven’t agreed to anything yet. So maybe someone could tell me what’s going on?”

  Lund did his serious face and held Val’s shoulder. “We need her, Val.”

  “She’s bad news, Lund.”

  “Sometimes it’s best to fight fire with fire.”

  “Then you run the risk of burning everything to the ground.”

  “And if you play with fire, you’re bound to get burned,” Chandler said. “Are we having a battle of the clichés now? Am I winning?”

  The phone buzzed again. Jack? Val sure hoped so. She needed to talk to someone sane.

  She pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the display. A text, but not from a number she knew. A hum rose in her ears. Finger shaking, she tapped the message.

  A photograph came up on the screen. No, not a photograph. A video. Still-framed on Grace’s face. Dark circles framed her eyes. A bruise ran along her jaw. Her hair hung in tangled hanks. A tremor burrowed into Val’s chest.

  “What is it?” Lund craned to see the phone.

  “Hess. It’s from Hess.”

  “Do you want me to watch it first, in case—”

  Val stabbed the play button. The image came to life.

  Hess looming over Grace.

  Hess pulling back his hand.

  Hess driving his fist into Grace’s beautiful face. Over. And over. And over.

  Val stumbled backward. Her back hit the wall. Her legs folded. She slid to the floor, gripping the phone hard enough that the case creaked.

  Grace. Her Grace. Hurt. Bleeding.

  Refusing to cry.

  “Val?” Lund knelt by her side. Even Harry hurried over.

  Val looked past them both. “Chandler?”

  The woman didn’t answer.

  Val couldn’t blame her. After all the horrible things Val had said. Things she’d meant. Every word.

  Every word.

  Val stared at the image of her niece freeze-framed on the screen. The terror on her face. The helplessness in her eyes.

  Val had been worried about the wrong thing. If given the chance, she wouldn’t have a problem killing Hess, even in cold blood. Anything to protect her Grace. Val was more afraid the opportunity wouldn’t arise. Or that because of her physical limitations, she couldn’t get the job done.

  “Lund is right, Chandler. I need you.”

  Chandler raised an eyebrow. “You’re not worried I’ll kill someone?”

  “I want you to.”

  Chapter

  Thirty-Two

  Carla

  “A house is made of boards and stone, but only love can make a home.”

  When Carla had first seen that quote, she’d been barely eight years old. It had been hanging on the wall of her first foster home, one of those cross-stitch projects some women do, and she’d immediately understood what it meant.

  The foster home had been nice. Oak woodwork, beige carpet, and cream-colored walls on the inside. The outside hadn’t been stone, but vinyl siding, crisp and new. Much better than anything Carla had known. But it had never felt right.

  It had never been home.

  When she’d married, it had been the same way. Scott had built his own business, and while they weren’t anywhere near rich, their home was nice, even if the love was missing.

  And now?

  Carla glanced around the inside of the Winnebago. Barely enough space for one person to move at a time. Threadbare orange-and-burgundy-striped upholstery on benches that transformed into a bed. Linoleum flooring that curled up at the edges.

  And yet, this was going to be her first real home since she’d been taken from her mother. Finally. She could feel it.

  She and Dixon had driven Kevin Burke’s motor home here yesterday, the last piece of the puzzle she’d started assembling months ago. While he’d checked on the area below, she’d washed the dishes in the cupboards, vacuumed, and dusted, all so it would be ready.

  She wished she had time to bake cookies or a cake or something to celebrate. Instead, she had to make do with macaroni and cheese and cookies from the store for Ethan’s first meal at home. But after this was over, when her little family was safe and far away from here, she would make something really special.

  Carla moved the striped curtains aside and peered out the window. It stayed light so long now that it was March, but the day was overcast and raining and the sun was just starting to set, darkness closing in. A car she didn’t recognize wound along the curve of the paved road, its headlights bouncing off leafless trees.

  She glanced to the front of the motor home, making sure the shotgun was still tucked behind the driver’s seat, easy to reach if she needed it. Then she went back to watching the car wind toward her through the leafless trees.

  For a moment, the sunset caught the driver’s face, then the angle of the vehicle changed, and glare bloomed over the windshield.

  But she’d seen enough.

  “I don’t want to hear a word from you when he gets here. Not a word.”

  The girl raised her head from her hands.

  Crouched in the corner in front of the mini washer and dryer, Grace had been quiet since they’d arrived. But Carla didn’t trust her. Not for a second. “This is a special moment for us. A special moment for our son. It has to be perfect. If you ruin it, I swear I’ll…”

  “Kill me?”

  Carla looked back out the window to the spot where the car had parked. She supposed threats were worthless with the girl now. She was going to die, anyway, and by Dixon’s hand, not Carla’s. So why not take away every special moment from Carla while she had the chance?

  “I’ll make the rest of your life miserable,” Carla finally said, although she was sure Dixon would want to do that himself.

  The door opened, and there they were. Dixon and their son. Together. And coming home to her. Just as they had in her dreams, from the moment she’d seen him on the nightly news.

  “Momma!” Ethan scrambled up the steps ahead of his father and held out his hands to her. “Momma, Momma, Momma!”

  She scooped him into her arms and held his warm little body tight, despite the awkward fit of her body armor. He smelled of crayons and baby shampoo, and his blond hair felt silky against her cheek. She looked to Dixon, smiling. Beaming. She held o
ut her free arm to him, wanting to pull them both close.

  A family.

  Her family.

  And finally she was home.

  “Put him down.”

  Carla blinked back the mist of tears blurring her vision.

  “I said, put him down.”

  Dixon’s voice was so hard. So… angry.

  “But I haven’t seen him for so long.”

  “What? Days? A week?”

  “That’s a long time. I’m just so happy you brought him home to me.”

  “Put him down or I’ll break your damn arms.”

  Ethan stared at her, his eyes wide, shocked at the force in his father’s voice. Then his mouth wavered, and he started to cry.

  This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. This wasn’t…

  Dixon glowered at her. “Carla. What did I say?”

  She set her little boy on the floor.

  Crying full bore now, Ethan surged for her, clinging to her legs. “Hol’ me.”

  “He needs me,” she said, her voice weaker than she’d intended. “He needs me.”

  “You?” Dixon let out a laugh. “Why would he need you? You’re not his mother. His mother is dead.”

  “I’m the only mother he knows.”

  “He’ll forget you. I only wish I could forget mine.”

  “How can you say that?” Carla’s throat felt tight, as if she were choking, as if she couldn’t breathe. “I’m going to take care of him. I’m going to take care of you both.”

  “Take care of us?” Dixon shook his head. His face looked hard, his pale blue eyes sharp like the edge of a blade. “What makes you think you can take care of us? That we would even want you?”

  “We… we’re a family…”

  “In your head, maybe.”

  “But all I’ve done for you, all I’ve done…”

  “You’ve done what I told you, and even then you fucked it up half the time.”

  Carla clapped her hands over her mouth. How could he be talking to her this way? This was their perfect night. How could he be saying these things?

  Dixon turned away from her, as if he’d forgotten she was even there.

  Carla could feel the girl’s eyes on her, the little bitch, watching all of it from the back of the Winnebago. This was supposed to be Carla’s special moment. The one she’d been waiting for. The one Grace Ryker had already stolen from her once. The one that had been stolen from Carla from the time she was eight years old.

  Ethan’s wailing grew louder. He grabbed at her legs, as if he was trying to climb up to her arms.

  “I said shut up.” Dixon spun around. The back of his hand connected with the side of Ethan’s head.

  Carla watched Ethan fall, sprawling on the floor. He kept crying, even harder now. But she couldn’t move, not to catch him, not to comfort him. She didn’t dare do anything that might make Dixon angrier. Anything that might make things worse.

  And Ethan stared up at her through his tears and struggled to breathe around his sobs, looking for a mother’s comfort that would never come.

  Lund

  The back room of The Doghouse was quiet, drinkers shooting pool and McGlade’s music video playing through the tinny laptop speakers the only sounds.

  “Chocolate Rain…”

  A minute passed. At least it felt like a minute, maybe even two. In true McGlade form, Harry was the first to speak. “If the catfight is over, I’m going to go get a beer. Unless you’re planning to kiss and make up?” He wiggled his brows.

  “Shut up, McGlade,” Val and Chandler said together.

  Lund offered Val a hand.

  Ignoring it, she heaved herself to her feet on her own. She crossed the room and sat down at the table, still clutching her phone, staring at the screen.

  “If you two change your mind, either decide to go back at each other’s throats or suck face, let me know. I’ll be at the bar.”

  “I need some air,” Chandler said, following McGlade.

  Air sounded good to Lund. Even better, punching something, preferably Hess’s face. But instead of following the other two, he walked over to where Val was sitting and propped a hip on the table. “I’m so sorry.”

  Val didn’t look up. She tapped the screen, replaying the video Hess had sent.

  “Don’t punish yourself.”

  “She swears after he hit her. Grace never swears.”

  Lund watched the video play, complete with Grace looking up at the camera and uttering the word damn. Whether Grace swore or not was a strange thing to focus on. As far as he was concerned, she had every reason to swear right then. That Val would pick out something so insignificant made Lund worry. “We’ll get him. We’ll stop him.”

  “Save it, Lund.”

  “You’re mad. About Chandler?”

  “I’m not thinking about Chandler right now.”

  “She really can help us.”

  “I know.”

  “Val, I—”

  “Listen Lund, I really need a few minutes alone. Please. Go talk to Chandler. Tell her what’s going on. Find out her terms.”

  “You don’t have to be so matter-of-fact about this, Val. It’s—”

  Val looked up, her eyes drilling into him. “What do you want, Lund? You want me to fly apart? Because I’m trying very hard to keep that from happening.”

  “Sorry.”

  She looked back at the phone. Tapping the screen, she started the video again.

  When Lund walked out into the main bar, Harry was bellied up. Chandler was outside, standing in the rain. Lund joined her, fat drops hitting his face and dribbling down the back of his neck.

  “That was fun,” she said after a moment.

  “You have a strange definition of fun.”

  “You have a strange way of welcoming a girl you haven’t seen for a year and a half.”

  Lund wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic or hinting for a hug. Probably too late for hugs. At this point, he suspected if he tried, she’d punch him. “I did a great job of helping, didn’t I?”

  “If it works out in the end, I’d be willing to bet she forgives you.”

  “You should have returned my call.”

  “You shouldn’t have called in the first place.”

  Lund ran a hand over his face, the stubble along his jaw rasping against his fingertips.

  “The last time we saw each other… you said you didn’t want to forgive me. Who I am, what I do. You couldn’t see me anymore. But now that Val needs someone like me, all’s forgiven?”

  “I know it seems…”

  “Like you’re a hypocrite?”

  Chandler was right. He’d said some pretty terrible things to her. Rejected her. And the very reason he’d left her was the reason he’d called her back now. “I’m sorry.”

  “You can’t be sorry and then continue to do the same thing. You want me to leave?”

  “No.”

  “You gonna dump Val and stay with me tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re not sorry. You’re using me.”

  Lund opened his lips to apologize again, then closed them without uttering a sound. Chandler was right. He was using her. And if being sorry meant he had to abandon Grace and let Val take on the burden of killing Hess, then he wasn’t sorry, either.

  “I need you, Chandler.”

  “To take a life.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I’m the type who can?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what’s wrong about judging others, Lund. If the stakes are high enough, anyone will abandon their principles. Even you.”

  Lund watched a raindrop slide down his nose and drip from the tip. The stakes were high, all right. So high. And it was important he make Chandler understand.

  “Her mother died when she was twelve. She never knew her father. And yet, she’s the most positive person you’ll ever meet. She lives to help other people, I mean lives for it. She doesn’t have a cruel bone in he
r body. She has a horse called Banshee that she dotes on. And when she sings, it kind of makes you believe in good things.”

  “Val?”

  “Grace.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s only seventeen, Chandler. Do you remember when you were seventeen?”

  Chandler never showed emotion, not unless she wanted to. Yet her face tightened a little. “She doesn’t sound anything like me at seventeen.”

  At one time, Lund would have longed to know what Chandler was like at seventeen. What she was doing. Now, he had a feeling it was a lot darker than he was prepared to face. “Okay, bad comparison.”

  “But you love Grace.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  He needed to be honest. He needed to tell her everything. “I love Val, too.”

  Chandler stared at him, her face a complete blank. But despite her lack of reaction, Lund knew he’d hurt her. Not now, necessarily, but before. And probably every day since. For that, he would always be sorry.

  Just as he was about to tell her so, she cut him off. “Like I said, I’ll do it.”

  “There’s more. Hess is dangerous.”

  “I can handle Hess.”

  “You don’t know him, what he’s done.”

  “I’ve known a few psychopaths in my day. Hell, my sister is one of them.”

  Lund remembered Chandler’s sister, Hammett, and to his embarrassment, he shuddered a little.

  A little smile flitted over Chandler’s lips, gone almost as soon as he noticed it. “But any intel you can give me will help,” she said.

  Lund filled Chandler in on Hess. The affair with Kelly Ann. His first conviction and the brutal fallout. The trial and jailbreak. His promise to take everything Val loved. When he was finished with the story of Hess, he moved on to McGlade’s dossier on Carla and what little they knew about Burke.

  “Okay, then, go in and tell your blondie cheerleader that we’re on.”

  Blondie cheerleader. Val would love that nickname. Lund chuckled despite himself. He had missed Chandler. He had no business feeling that way, but he did. “I really am sorry, you know.”

  “We come from different worlds, Lund. You’re a rescuer. I’m a killer. You were right about that part. But even so…” Chandler paused, her brown eyes drilling into his. “I am one of the good guys.”