Secret Hideout

by Paula Graves

  She spotted a set of dumbbells tucked in the corner of the room that she hadn’t noticed before in her quick trips to the hiding closet. He’d been working out, clearly.

  Gearing up for a coming battle?

  Her gaze tried to return to Scanlon’s whipcord body, but she forced her eyes up to meet his gaze instead, and found him looking at her bare legs. She gathered the towel more tightly around her and cleared her throat. “I had a thought in the shower. About the connection between the bombings.”

  He snapped his gaze up to hers, a hint of sheepish color tinting his cheeks. “Yeah?”

  “You know how the SSU went after my cousin and his wife?”

  “Yeah—”

  “Well, the SSU had nothing against Abby and Luke. They had no inherent beef against them. So why’d they go after them?”

  “Because Barton Reid paid them to.”

  “Exactly,” she said with a grin.

  Understanding flickered in his eyes. “So maybe this bomber isn’t a serial bomber so much as a bomber for hire?”

  “It wouldn’t even have to be the same client. It could have been four different clients. Maybe he’s out there, swimming in the muck of society’s underbelly, looking for clients just like a hit man or a fixer would.”

  “It would explain why the bombs are the same but the targets aren’t connected,” Scanlon admitted. He shot her a look of admiration. “Good catch, Cooper.”

  Though pleased by his praise, she tried not to show it. It had been a long time since she was the rookie sucking up to the more experienced agent. “I’m going through the possible suspects police came up with before we flagged the cases. Maybe the connection is with the enemies, not the bomber.”

  They both fell silent, just looking at each other until the air between them felt as thick as molasses. Scanlon made the first move, crossing to the dresser to pull out a T-shirt and a pair of sweats. His tee, she noticed, was bright orange, emblazoned with the University of Texas logo.

  He saw her smiling at the selection. “What?”

  She put the knapsack on the end of the bed and pulled out the sleeping clothes she’d selected. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

  His eyes darkened as he took a step toward her. Her muscles contracted, like an animal preparing for flight, which was strange, because the last thing she wanted to do was run away from the man moving toward her in slow, deliberate paces.

  “You’re going to want to close the bedroom door tonight,” he said in a low voice that sent a ripple of fire shooting through her belly. “Might even want to lock it.”

  She didn’t think he was warning her against intruders from outside. Lifting her chin, she leveled her gaze with his. “I’m not afraid. I can handle anything that happens.”

  She wasn’t talking about intruders, either.

  “I’m not sure I can.” His voice came out in a hoarse whisper, and he backed away from her, the heated air between them replaced by the dank chill that had descended on the house with the fall of night.

  She released a soft sigh of frustration as he slipped out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  SCANLON DIDN’T LIKE LEAVING ISABEL back at the cabin while he ventured into town the next morning, but he couldn’t avoid Bolen Bluff forever. He had to go for supplies, for one thing. Isabel might pretend she was feeling better, but ketamine could take a big physical toll, and he needed to be sure he had plenty of healthy food, water and painkillers on hand.

  He could drive over to Mentone or all the way into Fort Payne, he supposed, but that would be avoiding the inevitable. He was here to insinuate himself into the very fabric of life in the insular little hamlet. It was time to get back to the job he’d come here to do.

  Bolen Bluff was little more than a cluster of storefronts lining Poplar Street, on which no poplars grew at all, only scrubby oaks, hickories and pines. Most of the people in town either worked right here in the area or lived on welfare while they grew marijuana and cooked methamphetamine with stolen or illegally procured pseudoephedrine. The pot growers and meth cookers were all affiliated with the Swains in some way, of course. Anyone who tried to horn in on the Swains’ business around Bolen Bluff ended up dead or missing.

  It hadn’t always been that way. When Scanlon had been little, Bolen Bluff was still a pretty little hamlet in the north Alabama hills, close enough to the Desoto National Forest to benefit from some of the tourism that usually centered around Fort Payne and the Little River Canyon.

  But the Swains were starting to get a foothold even then. They were an old family, descended from the original settlers, if the stories were to be believed. Jasper Swain’s own father had been a moonshiner, but the end of Prohibition had made home brew a losing proposition. The rise of marijuana as the drug of choice in the fifties and sixties, however, had given the Swain family a new source of income.

  Meth had come next, easily made during the days when a person could actually buy pseudoephedrine products right off the shelves of any pharmacy. Crackdowns on meth production had driven those products behind the pharmacy counter in recent years, but there were still ways for resourceful criminals to get what they needed to cook their product.

  Eventually, the criminal elements had driven out all but the most stubborn residents of Bolen Bluff, leaving only a few hardy souls to battle the Swains’ complete takeover of the town.

  The only grocery store in town belonged to one of the Bolen Bluff holdouts, Deanie Floyd, a sun-bronzed woman in her late sixties who was still pretty enough in her waning years to convince Scanlon that she’d been a knockout in her younger days. She flashed him a wary smile as he entered but greeted him politely enough from the manager’s counter.

  “How’re you doing this beautiful day, Mr. Shipley?”

  “I’m just fine, Mrs. Floyd. I’m in the mood for some fresh fruits and vegetables—what do you have today?”

  She waved at the produce section. “Got a fresh load of broccoli and cauliflower this morning, and the strawberries and cherries are in prime shape. A little early for peaches, but they’re not bad if you cook ’em. Plenty of good pears and apples.” She gave him a quick look through narrowed eyes. “You thinkin’ about cookin’ that girl of yours something special?”

  It took a quick, panicked second to realize she was talking about Dahlia McCoy and not Isabel. “That may be a little beyond my abilities, Mrs. Floyd. Just thought I’d have a few things available in case she wanted to get creative in the kitchen.”

  Deanie smiled. “You mean, you’re hoping she’ll cook you something special.”

  “You know all my secrets,” he said aloud.

  “Not yet,” she said flatly. “But give me time.”

  Unease flushed through him as he turned and picked up a shopping basket. He had too damned many secrets that could blow up in his face any time as it was. Having to hide Isabel from the people of Bolen Bluff—both friends and foes—was going to be a nightmare.

  Even as he gathered up food he knew she’d like, he started formulating a plan to convince her that the safest option for both of them was for her to go home to her family. They had the resources and the manpower to watch her back. If she wanted to keep looking at the files, she could do it from the safety of her own home. Anything she came up with, she could relay to Adam Brand.

  As he was paying Deanie for the groceries, Davy McCoy and an unfamiliar man entered the store. They started to head straight toward the back when Davy caught sight of Scanlon. He gave a brief nod of recognition before following the other man down the aisle toward the far end of the grocery store.

  “Hard to believe Davy McCoy and your Dahlia are related.”

  Scanlon nodded without making a comment.

  “You ought to stay clear of Davy and the boys. They’re nothin’ but trouble.”

  Scanlon couldn’t argue with Deanie about that. “I know how to keep my nose clean,” he said, hoping the vague assurance would appease her.

  �
��See that you do. It don’t take long for a fellow to get caught up in all that Swain mess around here. I’ve seen it happen often enough.”

  Scanlon just smiled and took the bag of groceries from the checkout stand. “Thanks a million, Mrs. Floyd.”

  She gave a little wave, her expression worried.

  He’d just put the bag of groceries in the passenger seat of his truck and closed the door when a pair of soft hands covered his eyes. Dahlia’s warm drawl asked, “Guess who?”

  He felt a flutter of guilt as he pasted on a smile and answered, “The prettiest girl in Bolen Bluff.”

  “You are the sweetest thing.” She dropped her hands and pulled him around to face her. “What’re you doing in town this fine morning?”

  “A little grocery shopping. Thought I’d also drop by the feed store, see what’s shaking.”

  Her brow furrowed prettily. “You don’t have any livestock to feed, which means you’re just lookin’ for trouble.”

  “I’m going to be fillin’ in at the store during the barbecue on Saturday,” he told her, wondering how she’d react.

  She looked more surprised than alarmed by the information. “Who told you that?”

  “Davy and Bobby came by yesterday. Said Addie herself had asked for me.” He let a little hint of pride seep into his voice. To be asked to do anything by Addie was a big deal in Swain circles, since she was one of old Jasper Swain’s proxies among the family. Maybe even the most notable one, since her other siblings didn’t have much to do with the business. There was another brother, Albert, and sisters named Melinda and Opal, but none of them seemed to be part of the business now, though it had long been thought that Albert, at least, was involved at the time Jasper went to jail.

  “Tell them no,” Dahlia said.

  “I can’t do that. I’ve already said yes.”

  Dahlia looked ready to argue, but her gaze shifted to somewhere behind him, and her eyes narrowed.

  Scanlon turned to see Addie Tolliver walking down the sidewalk toward the two of them, a smile on her handsome face.

  She was a tall, rawboned woman in her early sixties, with a wide brow and freckled skin grown leathery from so many years in the hot Alabama sun. She was lean for a woman her age, and muscular, as if she’d done a lifetime’s worth of hard work. Of course, in her case, the exercise had been harvesting marijuana and hauling their illegal wares from place to place rather than honest hard work and sweat.

  She joined them next to Scanlon’s battered Ford. “Davy and Bobby told me you’re going to watch the store for me on Saturday. Kind of you to do so.” She had a polite, almost formal way of speaking that gave her the air of a proper Southern lady. But the jeans and worn plaid shirt she wore over a ribbed tank top said anything but “proper Southern lady.”

  Scanlon sometimes wondered what the Swain family might have become had they chosen a legitimate way of life. They were an odd clan, with customs that nobody in the family had the guts to break. Or maybe they just lacked the desire to break with the customs. They took pride in being Swains, the same pride he’d feigned with Dahlia moments before.

  “I’m happy to do it, Miss Addie.” He could feel Dahlia’s eyes on him, her displeasure palpable.

  “I’ll have the boys bring you a plate from the barbecue before you go,” Addie said, then turned her gaze to Dahlia. “You have something you want to say, Dahlia May?”

  Dahlia just shook her head and walked away, heading toward the small dress shop on the corner.

  “You should choose your friends carefully around here, Mark Shipley,” Addie said, her gaze still following Dahlia down the street. “So many ways to go wrong in a place like this.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said.

  She turned her blue eyes back to him. “I have a stock run down to Albertville this morning, so I reckon I’d better take my leave now. You have a fine day, Mark Shipley.”

  He tipped his baseball cap to her and watched her stride away, back in the direction she’d come.

  She’d come here to speak to him specifically, he thought, wondering if that meant he was a step closer to acceptance among the Swains.

  If so, it was that much more vital that he talk Isabel into going back home to Gossamer Ridge. Because once he got his foot in the door of the Swain family racket, things would get a thousand times more dangerous in Bolen Bluff.

  Chapter Seven

  The ketamine had done a number on her. She was as weak as a kitten and sweating buckets as she forced her trembling arms through another rep of bicep curls.

  If she was going to be any help to Scanlon, she’d need to have more than just her brain in fighting shape. She’d slacked off on her fitness routine since undergoing Cooper Security’s grueling orientation training, finding it hard to get motivated to work out daily after Scanlon’s death. He had been her workout partner for almost two years, their natural competitive streaks driving them to the gym even on days when neither of them felt like putting in the time on the machines.

  Just eight more curls and she could stop for a second—

  The front door of the cabin opened, sending her nerves rattling. When she didn’t hear Scanlon’s voice, calling out an assurance, she put down the dumbbells as quietly as she could and padded silently to the closet, which she’d left open in case she needed to hide in a hurry.

  She left the closet door open a crack, just enough space for her to press her eye to the opening and look out on a narrow slice of the bedroom.

  She heard footsteps, faint at first as they moved around the front room. They grew louder as the intruder headed down the hallway and detoured into the bathroom.

  As she looked toward the hallway, her gaze snagged on the portfolio sitting on the edge of Scanlon’s dresser.

  The one containing all the notes and evidence they’d gathered on the serial bombings.

  Swallowing a profanity, she opened the closet and darted out into the room, her hand on the Beretta holstered on her hip. She grabbed the portfolio and scooted back to the closet, barely drawing the door to before the footsteps coming down the hall entered the bedroom.

  Her pulse thundered in her ears, nearly eclipsing the sound of the man’s thick boots on the hardwood floor. She caught just a glimpse of him as he passed through the slim strip of room visible from her position, her breath hitching as a flash of memory flooded her brain.

  Blue eyes, clear and hard. Gazing down at her, crinkled with a mean smile.

  He’d been one of the men. The one she’d thought, for a brief time, was Jasper Swain.

  He was a lot younger than old Jasper was now, but he looked remarkably like the younger photos of the man. Same sandy red hair and cobalt eyes, same rangy build and freckled complexion.

  This one was definitely a Swain. But she had gathered photos of all the Swain family operatives in conjunction with her research, and this man was not among them.

  Could he be the man her brother mentioned? The J. T. Swain who’d worked for MacLear as a Special Services Unit operative?

  The intruder took his time, walking slowly around Scanlon’s bedroom as if he owned the place. Hearing drawers slide open and shut, Isabel clutched the portfolio to her chest and sent up a quick prayer of thanks that she’d seen the file in time to retrieve it.

  Would he search inside the closets? What was this guy looking for? Did he suspect Scanlon was a plant?

  Her pounding pulse notched higher when she heard the front door open again. Aware that if the new arrival was Scanlon, he might well call out her name to let her know he was there, she held her breath in terror.

  But all she heard was the sound of footsteps walking slowly down the hallway. Another intruder?

  She heard a soft scraping sound inside the bedroom, and it was all she could do to remain still, her curiosity nearly overcoming her.

  The footsteps coming down the hall entered the room. She peered through the space in the door and saw Scanlon walking slowly toward the far side of the small room.

&nb
sp; His footsteps stopped for a minute, then he spoke. “You can come out. He’s gone.”

  Isabel’s legs trembled as she pushed to her feet and exited the bedroom closet. She spotted Scanlon at the window, gazing through the narrow space between the curtain panels.

  “How did you know someone was in here?”

  “I set a trap at the front door.” He showed her a piece of narrow filament. “If the door opens, it breaks this. It was broken when I arrived.”

  “How did you know I didn’t go out the door myself?”

  He looked at her. “Because you’re too smart to stick your head out of this house with people looking for you.”

  She nodded toward the window. “Do you know who that is?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t get a look at his face, but he doesn’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen around here.”

  “He’s a Swain, for sure,” she said flatly. “I got a look at his face when he came into the room.” At Scanlon’s arched eyebrow, she added. “I left the closet door open a crack.”

  “What makes you think he’s a Swain?”

  She described the man to him. “I’m nearly positive he was one of the men who tried to abduct me. He was the one with the blue eyes. For a second, I thought he was old Jasper Swain himself. He looks a lot like the old man.”

  He looked down at the portfolio she still held clutched against her chest. His brow furrowed. “You’re still studying those files?”

  “Yes, but I took a break,” she admitted, glancing toward the array of dumbbells she’d been using to work out. “I was trying to get some strength work in.”

  He glanced at the dumbbells and back at her. “Thank God you remembered to grab the file when you hid in the closet.”

  “I didn’t, at first.” She tamped down a shudder at the memory of her close call. “I ran out and got it just before he came into the bedroom.”

  “Oh, Cooper.” He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her to him, sliding his arm around her shoulder to hold her close. She leaned her head against the curve of his neck, wishing they could both go back six months to a time when not everything they did or said could get them killed.