by Lynda Bailey
She torqued from his grip, clawing at his knuckles. “Let me go.”
“Ow!” He released her and looked at the blood trickling down his fingers. “Why you ungrateful bitch.” He backhanded her and the force hurled her into Lynch, almost toppling over the wheelchair. “I’m offering you a future, goddamn it. A life. The best fucking life you can ever imagine. Why can’t you accept that?”
She straightened. “Accept that you murdered my father? That you tried to murder my brother and now you want to murder my son? Accept that?” Her loud scoff bounced around the room. “Never. There will never be a future for us because I will never accept you.”
Graham’s eyes widened, showing the whites. He pointed the gun at her head. “So you’d prefer to die?”
She upped her chin. “Yes.”
His lethal gaze tapered. “As you wish.”
Shasta held his stare. She had no doubt Graham would shoot her—would kill her—but she would rather die than be with him.
She looked over at the peaceful face of her son. Undaunted by the threat of death, she sat beside him and stroked hair from his forehead. She gathered him into her arms. She kissed his soft cheek. Graham moved to the side, out of her peripheral vision. She began to rock, humming Wyatt’s favorite lullaby.
She felt the cold, hard edge of steel against the back of her head. Absently she wondered how a bullet in her brain would be explained in the aftermath of the fire. Not that it really mattered…
Tears stung her eyes, but she wasn’t crying because she feared dying. She didn’t. She’d be with Wyatt, and Lynch. Guilt pinched her heart that Lynch never knew his son, at least not in this life. But he would in the next.
She also regretted having to leave Dell all alone. She could only hope her brother would be all right.
Shasta ceased her humming as the gun barrel pressed closer. She tightened her embrace around Wyatt and buried her face in his neck. His scent reminded her of when he was an infant. All warm and cuddly. She envisioned his green and white nursery with the musical mobile hanging over the crib and the morning sunlight streaming through the curtains…
The faint sound of wood creaking intruded on her thoughts. She shoved it away. She wanted to stay where she was…with Wyatt and the multitude of his stuffed animals surrounded by the fragrance of baby powder.
She heard a muffled grunt. A deafening blast resounded in her ear. Fiery heat tore through her head.
Then nothing…
Chapter Twenty-Eight
SHASTA DIDN’T KNOW what hurt worse—the pain erupting through her skull or the shaking that intensified said pain.
She always figured dying would encompass a bright light then deceased loved ones, namely her mom and dad, would take her hand and lead her through Heaven’s gates. Maybe there’d even be a chorus of angels singing.
She never imagined it would have this level of horrific pain.
Great. More shaking. And a voice. From very far away…calling her name, but it wasn’t either of her parents…
“Shaly…c’mon, Shaly, baby. Open your eyes.”
With supreme effort she cracked one lid, but saw nothing. Probably due to a warm liquid which coated her eye. She licked her lips. “Lynch?”
“Oh thank God.” Relief steeped his voice. Strong yet tender hands gripped her upper arms, encouraging her sit up.
Dizziness assaulted her while agony stabbed her brain. She placed her palm to her head.
Lynch stayed her action. “Easy. The bullet grazed you.”
She blinked to clear her vision, and Lynch’s worried face came into slow focus as he squatted in front of her. “What are you doing here?”
He yanked his shirt over his head. “Got a text with a picture of your son threatening his life if I didn’t show up at the Grab-n-Go. When I did, someone knocked me out. I woke up here.”
“So you’re here because of Wyatt?”
He paused in dabbing her face. “I wasn’t going to let anything happen to your son, Shaly.”
The pain in her head dwarfed the agony which battered her heart. Lynch was here, and in danger, to save Wyatt…a kid he didn’t even know. But should. Because Wyatt was his son…
Lynch stuffed the bloodied shirt into his waistband. “Can you stand?”
“I…I think so.” She grasped his shoulders as he helped her to her feet. She teetered then found some semblance of balance. “I need to tell you something.”
“Tell me later.” He again pressed his shirt to her head. “Hold this to your wound. Right now we need to get outta here. When soaked, lighter fluid burns slow, but once it reaches the gasoline, this place’ll go up like a tinderbox. Can you walk?”
She nodded. “How long have you been conscious?”
“Long enough to know your husband is Blackwell. Definitely didn’t see that coming.” Lynch lifted Wyatt into his arms and led the way outside with her stumbling behind.
“What happened to Graham?”
“I tackled him just as he shot you. God…I thought for sure you were dead.”
“Where is he now?”
“Dunno. The chicken shit ran out the door.” He laid Wyatt in the sedan’s headlight beam. “Whose car?”
Shasta whipped around to stare at the cabin. The quick movement roiled her stomach and jellied her knees, but somehow she remained standing. How could she have forgotten the FBI agent? She looked at Lynch. “Agent Newman is still inside.”
“Shit.” He shoved to his feet. “Where?”
“Down the hall…in one of the bedrooms I think.” She grabbed his arm when he started for the cabin. “You’re going inside?”
“Don’t have a choice. Stay put. I’ll be right back.” He bounded up the porch steps and disappeared through the door.
Shasta dropped down beside her son and cradled his head in her lap. Did Lynch have a choice? Of course he didn’t.
Stroking Wyatt’s hair, she stared at the door and willed Lynch to emerge. Time seemed to stop. How long had he been inside? Was he in trouble? Did he need her help?
She carefully shifted Wyatt off her knees when a crash snapped up her head. A back room window shattered. Thick smoke billowed out. Seconds later, a reddish glow appeared in the front doorway.
She vaulted to her feet. A blast staggered her back.
The cabin exploded into a fiery ball of orange and yellow flames.
Oh dear God—Lynch!
She ran forward, but the intense heat of the fire kept her back. “Lynch! Lynch!”
An ominous laugh pivoted her around.
Graham walked toward her, his teeth gleaming in a triumphant grin. “Callan’s dead.”
She held her ground as he advanced. “You don’t know that.”
“Oh, come now, sweetheart.” Graham stopped in front of her. Newman’s gun dangled from his hand. “The fire must’ve hit the gas main. Callan’s gone, and good riddance.” He trailed his fingers along her cheek. She jerked away.
Graham blew out a sigh. “There’s no use fighting me. This is destiny. Our destiny. From now on, it’ll just be you and me.” He glanced at Wyatt, and aimed the weapon at his head. “Once I eliminate the last trace of Lynch Callan, that is.”
Instinct took over. Shasta sprang, seizing Graham’s wrist in both her hands. She drove her knee up and into his forearm. He grunted at the impact then elbowed her—hard—in the midsection. Pain hemorrhaged through to her spine. She doubled over and nearly lost her grip, but she hung on. She had to hang on. She plunged her teeth into the fleshy part of his hand.
He howled and shook her loose. “You fucking cunt. I’ll kill you for that.” He clenched her hair in a punishing hold, wrenching her head back.
His wild-eyed, maniacal expression loomed before Shasta. With all her strength, she fought to keep Graham from pointing the gun at her face. She kicked his knee in hopes of throwing him off balance. It worked. Unfortunately when he fell, he took her with him. She bashed the weapon into his temple.
She hit the ground with a jar
ring jolt, but barely noticed the additional pain. She grappled the gun away then scrambled to her feet. Graham scuttled onto his hands and knees and she quickly jumped out of reach.
She leveled the gun at him. “Move and I will fucking kill you.”
He chuckled—he had the audacity to chuckle—and sat back. “We both know you won’t shoot me, let alone kill me, sweetheart.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
He fingered where she’d whacked him with the gun then looked up at her with an amused expression. “So now what? What’s your grand plan? Wait for the police? The fire department? It’ll be hours before anyone gets here and then what?”
“You’ll pay for your crimes.”
“What crimes? There’s no proof I’ve done anything wrong.”
“You confessed to the murder of my dad and the attempted murder of my brother.”
“Wives can’t be compelled to testify against their husbands, sweetheart.”
A satisfied smile lifted her lips. “But as you keep reminding me, you’re not my husband. And I won’t have to be compelled. I’ll testify. Willingly.”
Graham barked a laugh. “And you think that’ll make a difference? It won’t.” His expression darkened. “No one and nothing can touch me. I’m invincible. It’ll just be a matter of time before I’m free. Free to kill your brother and anyone else who dares get in my way. Because you will be mine, sweetheart. You. Will. Be. Mine.”
Icy terror twisted Shasta’s heart. If Graham wasn’t stopped, she and her family would constantly be in danger. But who could put an end to Graham once and for all? No one…except for her…
She gripped the gun in both hands. “Get up.”
Confusion flickered across his face. “Why?”
“Because I have enough knowledge of forensics to know when I shoot you, the trajectory of the bullet will show you were on the ground while I was standing. And I don’t want to explain that detail to the authorities.”
His eye twitched. “Guess I won’t be standing then.”
“Fine.” She squatted. “I’ll do it from here.”
For the first time, she saw fear in his eyes. “Killing me in cold blood? That’s not you, Shasta.”
“But it is you, isn’t it? You were prepared to kill Lynch and my son in cold blood without an ounce of remorse. Christ…” She shook her head. “I thought I knew you. I cared about you. But I was wrong.” She stiffened her arms. “Good-bye Graham.”
“Shaly!”
The shout turned her head. Lynch came around the side of the blazing cabin, helping an injured and staggering Agent Newman.
Joy stole her breath at seeing Lynch alive. But in the next instant, Graham sprang at her and grabbed for the gun. It went off. The recoil landed Shasta on her butt.
Graham’s expression was one of surprised disbelief. He looked down at his chest and touched his sweater. His fingers came away dripping with a dark liquid. His eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed in the dirt like a ragdoll.
Dead.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
SHASTA LOCKED HER car then made her way up the sidewalk to the stationhouse.
Almost two weeks had passed since that horrid night at Graham’s cabin. She still couldn’t wrap her head around the fact the man she’d married, and whom she’d lived with for almost eight years, had been a monster.
No…monster was too gentle a description for Graham. He’d been an ogre. A fiend.
Tears stung her eyes. How could the man who’d helped raise Wyatt, who changed his diapers and fed him at three a.m., so nonchalantly plan to burn him alive? Alive? Even now, the acrid reek of smoke invaded her senses while her skin pebbled with the memory of the intense heat of the fire. To think of her baby in the midst of that…
She shivered and pulled open the door, but the stabbing pain in her side halted her movement. She’d suffered several severely bruised ribs along with a concussion. But Wyatt—thank God—appeared none the worse for wear. He didn’t remember anything past the hot chocolate Graham gave him…hot chocolate that had been laced with a sedative.
She hadn’t yet gathered the courage to explain any of the events to her son. She simply told Wyatt his daddy went on another business trip, a plausible excuse. She’d also glossed over the reason why they were staying with Uncle Dell. The thought of sleeping under the same roof she’d once shared with Graham turned her stomach. There’d be time enough—later—to tell Wyatt the brutal truth about that night.
Another shiver hit her. Graham’s shocked expression when he keeled over dead continued to haunt her. She hadn’t had a choice…she knew that. It’d been either him or her. But how would she ever be able to tell that to Wyatt? Tell him how she’d killed his father? Murdered him?
Ignoring those thoughts, she walked inside and paused to look around. Everything seemed the same, yet so very different.
The number of FBI agents had diminished greatly. Now just a few sat at various desks doing paperwork while Agent Jarvis sat in Dell’s office talking with her brother. Shasta waved to Joan, who had a surprised look on her face, then headed to her desk. She’d only sat down when a voice said behind her,
“What the hell are you doing here, sis?”
Shasta pivoted around. Her brother stood there, with Jarvis—and neither of them appeared happy. “I work here, remember?”
Dell frowned. “Has the psychologist cleared you?”
She dropped her purse in the bottom drawer. “For heaven’s sake…it’s not like I operate heavy machinery. I do filing.”
“Still—”
With her foot, Shasta closed the drawer with a distinct thunk, cutting off Dell’s protest. She faced her brother. “I can’t stay at your place all damn day by myself. I’ll go crazy.”
Realization registered on Dell’s face. “Shit…I forgot…Wyatt went back to school today.”
More tears pressed at Shasta’s eyes, but she held them back as she straightened the neat pile of papers. “Yes, he did, though it went against every one of my maternal instincts.” She sighed. “But I suppose I can’t keep him encased in bubble wrap for the next thirty or forty years.”
Jarvis stepped forward. “Mrs. Dupree—”
Shasta held up her hand. “Please do not call me that. I’m changing my name back to Albright as soon as possible. In the meantime, call me Shasta.”
The agent gave her a kind smile. “All right, but only if you call me Emma.”
“Deal.”
Emma’s smile waned. “As I was saying…Shasta…you should have clearance before returning to work.”
“Really? And do I need clearance before giving my statement? I may not know a lot about police procedure, but I do know waiting two weeks to take someone’s statement isn’t normal.”
Dell rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh…look, sis…” His voice trailed off.
“Perhaps we should talk about this some place more private,” Emma suggested.
With a reluctant nod, Dell led the way to his office. Though Shasta wanted to object, she followed behind.
Once everyone had settled in their seats, Emma twined her fingers together and focused her attention on Shasta. “The truth is…we don’t need your statement.”
Shasta blinked. “Why not? I was there.”
“Yes, but Agent Newman said you were unconscious almost the entire time.”
Shasta’s mouth fell open. “No I wasn’t. I mean I was for a little while, but not for almost the entire time.”
Jarvis slowly shook her head, her mouth in a thoughtful frown. “Well…that’s what the official report says.”
Shasta narrowed her eyes. “If it says that, then how did I kill Graham?”
Emma glanced briefly at Dell than back to Shasta.
The hairs on Shasta’s neck rose. “What is it?”
Clearing her throat, the agent shifted. “The final report states…Lynch Callan shot and killed the individual known as Ian Blackwell.”
“What?” Shast
a nailed her brother with her deadliest glare. “What did you do?”
Dell held his hands up in surrender. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” Shasta swung her gaze to Jarvis. “Lynch didn’t kill Graham. I did.”
Emma pursed her lips. “The official account will say that—”
“But that official report is wrong.” Shasta sprang from her chair and plowed her fingers through her hair. She paced the small office then whirled around to glower at Dell, her fists on her hips. “How could you do this? The only reason Lynch was even at the cabin was to try and save your nephew. He’s innocent.”
Dell held her gaze. “I told you, I had nothing to do with this.”
She scoffed. “Like I believe you? This is just like the time you brought Lynch in for no goddamn reason then put him on display—naked—in the interrogation room.”
Emma sat taller. “What’s this?”
Disregarding the agent, Shasta planted her hands on Dell’s desk and drilled him with her stare. “You’ll do anything to hurt Lynch, won’t you? Anything to send him back to prison.” She straightened. “Well not this time. I. Will. Stop. You.”
Shasta stalked from the office, grabbed her purse then marched out of the stationhouse. She didn’t have a clue how she’d keep Dell from sending Lynch to prison, she only knew she would. She had to. Lynch had been through enough, because to her family.
He’d go through no more.
*
An hour later, Shasta propped her cell between her ear and shoulder so she could use both hands to fold Wyatt’s laundry.
After storming from Dell’s office, she’d gotten on the phone to the FBI office in Reno with the sole objective of reaching Agent Jarvis’s boss. She’d eaten her way up the federal food chain until finally accomplishing her goal—speaking to Special Agent in Charge Landau. However, the man was less than helpful.
“I’m not sure what I can do, Mrs. Dupree. The report filed by Agent Newman plainly states Lynch Callan shot and killed Ian Blackwell.”
“You’re not listening to me, Agent Landau. That report is wrong.”
