Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade Book 1)

by Christina Dodd

  “Where’s your weapon?” Birdie asked.

  When the two women left the military, they had invested in firearms, Birdie because her husband was a police officer and that put her in the line of fire, and Kellen because for a brief and harrowing time she went into security. After examining and handling weapons, they’d both decided on the Glock 21 SF, legendary for its accuracy and light recoil and holding thirteen rounds. They’d both obtained concealed weapons permits.

  “In my cottage,” Kellen said. “Carrying a gun is frowned upon in the hospitality business.”

  “Are you rethinking that policy?”

  Here at Yearning Sands Resort, Kellen had always felt safe, but now she admitted, “I am.”

  “Here.” Birdie shoved a thin black metal flashlight across the table.

  Kellen examined it. It was small enough to fit in a pocket or purse, had a concentrated beam bright enough to blind an attacker and a jagged edge around the bulb end that could be used as a weapon. She nodded slowly. “I like this. I like this very much.”

  “I thought you would. Keep it.”

  Kellen slipped it into her shirt pocket. For someone like her and like Birdie, trained in hand-to-hand combat, the flashlight was weapon gold. “First day on the job, I didn’t expect to find myself dealing with murder and mutilation.”

  “I remember in Afghanistan when you showed up, all pretty and unsmiling. We pegged you as a typical butterbar. Remember what happened next?”

  “We took shelling and we had to move the convoy to meet with reinforcements. Wow. That was a mess.”

  “You got us through with no loss of life and only one jeep down.”

  “I appreciate your confidence, but there’s no comparison. The resort is different, you know? In Afghanistan, we were soldiers. We were there because we volunteered. We knew full well we could die. Here, we have innocent guests and some nice people who work in a spa.”

  “Like civilians.”

  “Except in Afghanistan the civilians could kill you. Although, come to think of it, I suppose one of the guests could be a murderer.” Carson Lennex’s face popped into Kellen’s mind, and his foray into the resort’s darkened corridors. Perhaps his movements were innocent. But in these circumstances, she could hardly dismiss them out of hand. She looked around. “Where are the guys?”

  “Temo has gone to LA.”

  “He said he needed to go to see if he could lure friends up to fill the positions for his staff. But tonight?” Kellen’s finger circled the air.

  “It’s not staff he went for. Family shit is coming down. He says he’ll be back late tomorrow.”

  “He’s going to be pooped.” Kellen was going to need him to clean up after the storm tonight. “Where’s Adrian?”

  “Bed.”

  “Mitch?”

  “Hot promise.”

  “A date? It never takes him long, does it? Who’s got him now?”

  “That snooty girl at the reception desk.”

  “Frances? Wow.” No wonder Frances had smirked when Kellen told her to call him. “That woman…well, she’s not as bad as Sheri Jean.”

  “That’s like saying Dracula’s not as bad as Hannibal Lecter. They’re both going to kill and eat you.”

  “Think Mitch is in trouble?”

  “I think if Frances eats him, he’ll be a happy man.”

  Kellen was tired. It had been a long day. She was worried about Annie, the body, the communications blackout. She leaned her head on her hands and giggled. Finally, she looked up. “What about you? Why are you here so late?”

  “I sleep in maintenance most nights, what sleep I get. I had them put a cot in the loft.”

  Kellen looked up at the spiral staircase, the open-mesh metal floor, the steel railing. “A little industrial up there, isn’t it?”

  “I feel safe here. Tonight especially. If the ghosts wake or the grief comes on too strong, I can always wake up and go to work. You remember. You used to do that…in the war zone.”

  “I remember.” Kellen did remember leaning against a boulder blasted out of an Afghan mountain peak, watching the sun rise and spread glory across the broken landscape and seeing that hint of something Not Quite Right. An hour later, the unit was hunkered down, taking fire and returning it, and all because of Kellen’s sleepless night.

  “You were a legend. They said you couldn’t be killed.”

  “And here I am.” That general, the way he’d looked at her when he told her of her discharge, as if he knew about her missing year, as if he wondered what she had done and what she could do…and who would die.

  Birdie sipped her hot chocolate. “Lately I’ve been sorting through the old maintenance manuals they store up there. No one has ever thrown one away. If you can believe it, there was a vehicle manual for a 1957 Dual-Ghia D-500.”

  “Whoa.” Kellen felt the awe. “I wonder where the car went.”

  “I don’t know, but I saved that manual. Most of the rest are trash. I fill a box full, recycle it, fill another box full. It keeps me off the streets.”

  Kellen indicated the ATV. “Can I help you?”

  “Not tonight. I’m winding down and you should be, too.”

  “I am. But for a few minutes, I need something to do with my hands. It takes my mind off…what’s on my mind.”

  “Have at it, then. You have a way with circuitry, and that damned thing has a short somewhere and I haven’t been able to locate it.”

  Kellen fixed herself a mug of hot chocolate, pulled on a pair of Birdie’s coveralls, slid an LED lamp onto her forehead and went to look at the mechanics and the wires.

  In a conversational tone, Birdie said, “I told the guys you got that scar on your forehead when you were a teenager in Turkey.”

  “Huh? Oh. This is your story about me? What was I doing in Turkey?”

  “I told them you were raised by a spy family.”

  Kellen lifted her head from her work. “Birdie! You didn’t!”

  “I said your parents were on a secret mission to free a diplomat’s kidnapped daughter and they got killed. You freed the daughter and got her away, but at the last minute you were shot in the head.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Kellen groped for her mug and took a drink.

  “You miraculously recovered because your parents were part of a breeding program that produced superheroes.”

  Kellen snorted hot chocolate. That hurt.

  “You joined the military to change your identity and escape repercussions. You told the CIA that espionage was your parents’ choice, not yours, and now, despite government pressure, you refuse to return to the life of a spy.”

  Kellen leaned back against the seat of the ATV and laughed so hard her sides hurt. “Now that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “They bought it.”

  “No. They didn’t. A superhero? I’m a superhero?”

  “Adrian said that explained a lot, like how you got through that sabotage in Kuwait with only minor injuries.”

  “Minor injuries, my ass. I had surgery on my shoulder. I was unconscious for two days. I was discharged!”

  “You said you wanted something original, not the same old forbidden love and jealous husband story. So I went for it!”

  “You’re an idiot.” Still smiling, Kellen bent back to her work.

  Someone beat on the outer door.

  Both women straightened.

  Birdie click-released the safety on her pistol.

  Kellen went to the door and looked through the camera, realized communications were down and looked through the peephole.

  A bedraggled man stood there, and as she watched, he lifted his fist and pounded again.

  “Nils Brooks,” Kellen whispered. Like a grain of sand beneath the shell she had so carefully built around her
, she experienced a constant apprehension about him. Was the thing that niggled at her nothing more than a pair of gorgeous brown and possibly familiar eyes?

  Birdie indicated Kellen should allow him in, but she didn’t lower the pistol.

  Kellen shoved the door open and rapidly stepped aside.

  Nils hurried in and dragged the door shut after him.

  Birdie clicked the safety and slid her firearm into the holster and out of sight. “Mr. Brooks? What are you doing here?”

  He faced them, his overcoat unbuttoned, his golf shirt and jeans dripping, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. He pulled off his glasses and tried to dry them on his shirt, then realized it was impossible and slid them into his pocket. “Hi.” He gave a sheepish wave. “I had dinner in one of the restaurants, then listened to some music, then came out and got in the ATV… Now I’m lost. I can’t find my cottage, and I hope you don’t mind, but I saw your lights and hoped you could help me.”

  The two women exchanged glances and did a mental rock/paper/scissors.

  Birdie slid the Glock over to Kellen, stood and got him a towel. “Sure, come on in. It’s really coming down out there. Isn’t there rain gear on your ATV?”

  He looked abashed and embarrassed. “Sure. Probably. I remember being told that. I forgot… I should have stayed in the cottage.” He took off his scarf and shook it, took off his overcoat and shook it. He presented a hapless facade, but those eyes… Kellen felt off-kilter when she looked at them, as if she’d fallen into a wormhole and whirled backward in time.

  Ceecee. Ceecee. Where are you? Come back to me…

  The voice whispered in her mind. She ignored it. “Nice coat.” Kellen watched his face.

  Nils looked at his coat. “It was. It’s Burberry and wool. It’s supposed to be water-repellent. But it’s soaked.”

  “Yeah…” Kellen nodded. “Guests usually bring raincoats.” Not the most tactful thing to say, but man. Talk about epic unpreparedness.

  He tossed the coat over a hook, took the towel and rubbed his head.

  The man looked slender until the rain plastered his clothes to his body. Then he showed off muscle definition he couldn’t have gotten from sitting behind a desk. Nice butt, long legs, corded shoulders. He even looked good in goose bumps. And those eyes…

  Birdie stood behind him, and while he had the towel over his head, she pretended to feel him up.

  Kellen grinned.

  Of course, he whipped off the towel and both women had to fake not being two sex-starved, lascivious females.

  Kellen replied to the comment he’d made far too long ago. “Mr. Brooks, you did say you intended to stay in the cottage, but from what I saw, you came into the hotel to wander the halls and take notes.” Might as well let him know he’d been observed.

  “I’m doing research.” He sounded reproachful. “You understand that. You understand what it’s like to pay attention, to see things and understand what no one else can see or know.”

  Birdie and Kellen exchanged glances again, this time with more wariness.

  “You’ve got a gun,” he said to Birdie.

  “It’s lonely out here,” Birdie answered. “I’d be a fool to trust to human kindness.”

  “Yes. Finding that body made everyone nervous.” He shivered. “Any word from the coroner?”

  “Nothing yet,” Kellen said. “I expect I’ll hear from our policeman in the morning. Do you want a blanket?”

  “What I really want is to get back to my writing.” He patted the pockets of his overcoat and plunged his right hand inside.

  Birdie and Kellen flinched.

  But he brought out a leather notebook, shook water off the cover, opened it and groaned. “The ink’s run.”

  “Happens here in Washington when you don’t wear your rain gear,” Birdie said.

  “I’ll take your coat to the laundry tomorrow, see if they can do anything with it.” Kellen found a rain poncho and dropped it over his head. “Come on, I’ll get you back to your cottage now.”

  Birdie caught Kellen’s arm. “He’s in really good shape for a guy who lives behind a desk. Be careful.” So even Birdie thought something didn’t add up.

  “I will. I am.” Kellen grasped his arm and led him into the storm.

  “I’ve been watching you,” he said as he climbed into the ATV. “You’re competent.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Was that supposed to be a come-on? Because if it was, he needed to work on his lines.

  She dropped him at his cottage, watched him run up onto the porch and try to get in, turn and wave his hands helplessly. He’d lost his key card, so she used hers to open his door. She shoved him inside and headed to her cottage. She wanted to brush her teeth, wash her face, go to bed and sleep in peace, quiet and comfort between cool, clean sheets. Instead, she crawled up the spiral staircase to her loft and stared out toward the west, toward the ocean and the place where they’d found Priscilla’s body.

  * * *

  Two miles out of Greenleaf, the rain started. Cecilia watched the first drops hit the windshield and exalted in the knowledge that the summer storm coming in off the ocean would erase evidence, muddy the explosion site…

  She didn’t know how to turn on the windshield wipers.

  The rain fell harder.

  She poked at the controls on the steering column, turned, pushed, twisted. Stuff happened. The headlights came on. The windshield wiper on the back window started a fast, steady swish. If she’d been driving backward, that would be great. Instead, she was driving blind on a twisty two-lane highway. She was scared, dehydrated—and she couldn’t see where she was going. She peered through the sheeting rain, spied a turnout, pulled over and eased to a stop.

  She sat, heart racing, eyes full of tears. In her head, she heard Gregory’s voice. You’re not capable of caring for yourself, darling. You’re clumsy. You’re incompetent. He was right. She couldn’t even flee with efficiency.

  No! No. She’d find the car book. It would explain how to turn on the wipers. She opened the minuscule glove compartment, pulled out the paperwork, shuffled through it—this was a rental, she hadn’t realized that—looked back into the glove compartment. There in the recesses, she found the thin, floppy book waiting for her, and the Table of Contents/Wipers.

  So! Gregory was wrong.

  Someone knocked on her window.

  She half screamed, realized a police officer stood beside the car and knew she’d been busted. She stared, wordlessly pleading for him to understand, to believe that she hadn’t known what Gregory intended, to let her go.

  Rain sluiced off the cop’s coat and dripped off the brim of his hat. Impatiently, he indicated she should roll down the window.

  She did. About an inch. Her voice shook. “Yes?”

  Middle-aged guy. Stern face. “Miss, please present your license and proof of insurance.”

  “Sure. Um. License.” Kellen’s license in Kellen’s wallet. “It’s in my suitcase.”

  “You’re a tourist?”

  Was he trying to trick her? Or did he really not know who she was? He was state police, so maybe… “I am. This is a rental. It started raining. I couldn’t figure out the wipers. I pulled over to look it up.” She flapped the book at him.

  He looked at her, mouth cocked sideways. Then he heaved a sigh. “All right. I’m in a hurry, so we’ll skip the formalities. Wipers are the right middle lever, push it up and twist the knob up or down according to how fast you want the wipers to go.”

  She found the lever. She pushed it up. She twisted the knob back and forth. The wipers swished. “That’s it.” She smiled at him.

  “You bet. Your headlights are on bright. That’s illegal when driving into oncoming traffic.”

  “I’m sorry. I must have done it when I was trying to find the wipers.”

  “Yeah. Lever on th
e left. Bring it toward you. The headlights will not be bright anymore.”

  “Okay. Thank you. You want my license and proof of insurance?”

  “No. Next time read the book on your rental car before you run into a rainstorm.” He walked toward his patrol car.

  She adjusted the wipers, put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road.

  She smiled. She had bullshitted the cop. She had won the first battle.

  15

  The rest of the trip was normal, pretty much. Cecilia ran out of gas—she’d forgotten about trifles like refills—scared a girl at a drive-in who asked, “Are you a zombie?” paid for hotels with Kellen’s credit card and got so lost she saw signs that welcomed her to Virginia. Virginia! From Maine! On the way to New York!

  That was when she rediscovered the wonders of GPS. As she drove into New York City, the soothing GPS voice guided her over the NJ Turnpike, through the labyrinth of SoHo roads and to street parking two blocks from Kellen’s apartment. By now she had read through every scrap of paper in the car, and she knew what to do. She parked, gathered Kellen’s belongings, locked the car, took the key to a drop box and inserted it into the slot. Then she pretended she knew where she was going, pretended until she found the right street, then the right address, then used the fob to get into the narrow, empty lobby.

  She took a deep, relieved breath of musty air. This building had been an industrial site in the nineteenth century, remodeled with a cast-iron facade at the turn of that century, remodeled again in the 1970s to be lofts and apartments. The manager’s office was to the right; the name under the number was del Sarto. Cecilia did not want to meet Mr. del Sarto. Or Mrs. del Sarto. Or anybody who might know Kellen.

  So Cecilia eased past and climbed the stairs to the sixth floor. She met no one. She began to experience the euphoria of release, of safety in a cruel world. Unit 62—she unlocked the door, opened it, dragged in her luggage and dropped everything. She slid chains, bars, locks. She secured herself in against the world.

  Leaning against the door, she looked at the one room that contained a living area, a tiny kitchen, a bed and dresser—and tall, high windows that let in the light. A door led to a dark hole of a bathroom. Perfect. This place was perfect. Lucky, lucky Kellen.