by Debra Webb
The hard part might just be staying alive long enough to find it.
Chapter Four
Midnight was only minutes away when Deacon finally decided to call it a night. He had been watching her house for hours. She had turned out the lights an hour ago. As a precautionary measure, he had set up motion sensors at the edge of the woods around the house, several directed at the driveway. No one was getting close to her without his knowing about it.
Cecelia Winters had a lot of enemies in this town. Deacon did not want one or more of them getting in the way of his plan. He had wanted her to feel the pressure of coming home—the hatred, the shame—that was true. But no matter what she was guilty of, he did not want anyone hurting her physically. Even he wasn’t that heartless.
He had waited a long time to find the truth about his missing partner; he wasn’t going to allow some redneck with a grudge to screw that up now. Jack had a widow, he had two grown children who deserved to have closure.
Deacon had scarcely taken two steps along the path toward home when he heard the voices. They were too low to determine if they were male or female but there was definitely more than one. He eased into the copse of trees on the right to ensure his presence wasn’t picked up in the moonlight.
The figures moved out of the woods, into the backyard. With the help of the light from the moon he recognized they were male. One carried what appeared to be a large black box. No, he decided, not a box. A gas can. Since they moved toward the barn, the two obviously planned to torch it.
Bad idea in more ways than one.
It had not rained in more than a week. The grass, shrubs and trees were dry. A setting for disaster. Frustration and impatience mounted inside him. These bastards likely didn’t care the extent of the damage they caused, only that they wreaked havoc for the woman.
Deacon slipped along the edge of the woods bordering the yard until he reached the back side of the barn. The two were getting cocky now, talking a little louder, making more noise as they moved about to execute their dim-witted plan.
The smell of gasoline filled the air. One of the bastards had started to splash gasoline onto the barn.
Enough.
Deacon eased up behind the one with the gas can and pressed the muzzle of his weapon against the back of his head. “Don’t move.”
The man—the air—everything stilled for just a moment. A single moment that Deacon knew all too well. The fight-or-flight response would kick in next.
“If your friend lights a match I’m putting a bullet in your head,” Deacon warned.
The guy dragged in a breath and screamed, “Mac!”
“You pull that trigger,” the second man, the one named Mac, apparently, cautioned, “I’m pulling mine.”
“Either way,” Deacon pointed out with a nudge to gas man’s head, “sucks to be you.”
A shotgun blast exploded in the night.
The guy with the gas can dropped it and ran.
Deacon held the other man’s gaze. The light from the moon glinted off the barrel of his weapon. “You still have time to run.”
He held his position.
“Who’s there?”
Cecelia’s voice.
The sound of her racking the shotgun cracked the air.
Deacon’s tension moved to the next level.
“I’ve already called the sheriff!” she warned.
Another second of locked gazes and the man, Mac, broke. He ran for the tree line.
Deacon let him. Better that than a shoot-out. The two were obviously amateurs. Likely paid or otherwise influenced to set the fire to terrify the owner.
“It’s me!” Deacon called out as he tucked his weapon away and then stepped from the shadow of the barn where the moonlight would give her a clearer view of him.
She lowered the shotgun and turned on the porch light. “I heard voices.”
“You had company.” He walked toward the porch, scanning the tree line as he went. “We need a water hose.”
While they rounded up a hose he explained about her late-night visitors and how he had heard the gunshot and come running. Not exactly the whole truth but as close as she needed to know. She was safe and the would-be troublemakers were gone for now.
Deacon used the water hose to dilute and wash away as much of the gasoline as possible. When he felt satisfied with the results, he put the hose away and followed her inside. She had dragged on jeans beneath the nightshirt. Her hair was a tangle of fiery curls. She still held onto the shotgun, but she had started to tremble. The adrenaline from the excitement was receding, leaving her shaken. Deacon took the rifle and put it away. Just in time, since two deputies arrived and took their statements, then had a look around. The abandoned gas can might provide fingerprints. The man who had been carrying it had not been wearing gloves. Just proved how cocky he was. He hadn’t expected to get caught.
Deacon provided a detailed description of both men. He had not seen the vehicle in which they had arrived or departed. In fact, he had not heard one, either. Typically sound carried a fair distance in the dark, particularly in the country where there was little or no unnatural noise in the middle of the night. Obviously, they had parked a good distance away from their destination.
The deputies assured Cecelia they would do everything possible to identify the perpetrators. Deacon suspected that wouldn’t happen unless the prints of the man carrying the gas can were in the system. He was betting they weren’t, otherwise the guy wouldn’t have been so careless. Men who had done time generally did not want to do more. Still, there was a chance. One or both may have been high or something, though Deacon didn’t believe that to be the case.
When the deputies were gone, Cecelia stared at him for a long while before she mustered up the courage to say what was on her mind. “I still don’t understand why you’re doing all this.”
He had been expecting that one. “We’re neighbors. You want me to ignore the sound of a gunshot?”
She blinked, considered his explanation for a moment. “So you’ve decided that being my neighbor makes you my designated protector?”
She was angry now. This was a woman who wasn’t accustomed to folks lending a hand to help. She was suspicious and rightly so.
“I guess I could tell you how my father raised me to be kind and helpful, particularly when a lady was involved.”
Her expression warned that story was not going to cut it.
“When I bought the Wilburn place, I ran into your attorney, Frasier. He was here, checking on things. I stopped by to introduce myself to my new neighbor and he explained the situation. During the course of the conversation he asked me to keep an eye on you once you were released. I told him I would.”
Her mask of skepticism slipped just a little. “He was a good man. He tried really hard to help me.”
“I didn’t know him that well, but I got the impression he was quite fond of you.”
She relaxed visibly. “I think he was in love with my grandmother. I guess he felt compelled to see after me because of her.”
“I know a little about your story,” he said, choosing his words with care. “A lot of people appear to be angry with you.”
Her arms hugged more tightly around her slim body. “I have no control over what people choose to think of me or how they decide to act on those thoughts.”
“Do they have reason to be angry with you?”
Her chin came up in defiance. “Apparently they believe so.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I need a drink.”
Surprised, he turned and followed her into the kitchen. She reached under the kitchen sink and retrieved a bottle of bourbon. He had noticed it there the first time he came inside and had a look around. He figured her grandmother kept it around for therapeutic purposes.
She poured shots into two
glasses and handed one to him. “Thank you.”
He accepted the glass. “No thanks necessary.”
With one swallow she downed the shot, grimaced, then set her glass on the counter. “No matter that the thought crossed my mind on far more occasions than I care to name, I did not kill my father.”
She exhaled a big breath, as if saying the words out loud somehow released a massive weight she had been carrying for entirely too long.
He downed his drink, wished for another but set his glass aside, instead. “You took the fall for someone else.”
She leaned against the counter next to the sink. “I guess so. Not that I chose to or that I have any idea who I did it for. Don’t get me wrong, I was glad he was dead. For a little while, I didn’t even care who killed him. I assumed that the law would prove I was innocent—since I was. But that’s not how it worked out.”
To his surprise she reached for the bottle again and poured herself another shot. She offered the bottle to him but he declined. It was highly unlikely she had drunk anything that contained alcohol in more than eight years; one of them needed to remain stone-cold sober.
“So, you waited.” He leaned against the counter on the other side of the sink.
“But the police claimed that all the evidence pointed to me. I was always the black sheep of the family so I wasn’t surprised when Marcus and Sierra came out against me. Levi was the only one who stood by me.”
“Was there hard evidence or was it mostly circumstantial?” He knew the answer but he wanted to hear what she had to say on the matter. His knowing too much would only make her more suspicious.
“Those last couple of months before his murder we had several public disputes. During at least one of those occasions I said I wished he was dead. It was the truth. I did. I hated him. Hated him for making my mother so miserable. Hated that she was dead and he was still alive. Hated what he did to our family—turning us against each other.” She shrugged. “Basically, I hated him, period.”
“That’s hearsay—the arguments, I mean. There had to be other evidence.”
“He called. Said he needed to see me. My grandmother warned me not to go. She said he would just try and talk me into coming back into the family.” She turned, braced her hands on the counter and stared into the darkness beyond the kitchen window. “I should have listened to her. She had told me the stories of the things he said and did to my mother.”
A moment of silence passed with her lost in her memories. To prompt her, he asked, “Why didn’t you?”
“I guess all the way until the bitter end some part of me hoped to see a different side of him. Levi was having a hard time with all of it. He despised our father but he needed him. He was really young and he needed that male role model.” She shook her head. “Not that our father was the proper kind, but some part of Levi still loved him anyway. So I went. Thought maybe he might be reasonable.”
“Someone got there before you.”
She nodded. “When I arrived, he was dying. He had been stabbed more than a dozen times.” She drew in a big breath. “I think the autopsy report said nineteen.”
Deacon had seen the photos from the crime scene. It had been a bloody mess. Dozens of people had trampled the scene even before the law arrived, including Cecelia’s older brother and numerous other followers from the church.
“No matter that I hated him, I tried to help. I tried to stop the bleeding. Tried to give him CPR when he stopped breathing.”
She lapsed into silence once more.
“He didn’t say anything to you?”
“He did, actually. Well, I don’t know if he was speaking to me or just mumbling in general.”
“What did he say?” The answer to that question was also in the case file.
That answer was the one thing in all of this that gave Deacon pause. Winters had been dead when the police and the others arrived. No one would have known what he said to her if she had not given that information in her statement. He wondered if she had regretted doing so.
“He said the same thing over and over.” She turned to face him, met his gaze. “You. He kept saying you. It was like he had something to tell me or to accuse me of, but he couldn’t get the rest of the words out.”
“You had no idea what he might have wanted to tell you?”
She shook her head. “We weren’t exactly on speaking terms. Mr. Frasier said he may not have meant anything. He was dying. It may have simply been the only word he could say, or he may have been disoriented and confused. He may not have been speaking to me. It’s possible he didn’t even realize it was me trying to help him.”
“Who—other than you—had reason to want him dead?”
“That’s the strange part.” She closed her eyes a moment as if the bourbon had started to do its work. “His followers worshipped him. There were people in the community who disagreed with his religious beliefs, but as far as I know he had no enemies. Nothing was taken from the house. Someone walked in, stabbed him over and over and then walked out again.”
“I’m sure the authorities at the time explained to you that the sort of murder you described was an act of passion. There was a great deal of emotion involved. The killer would have been in a frenzy. Not thinking clearly.”
She appeared to consider what he said for a few moments. “I don’t remember any one mentioning anything like that.”
Deacon ignored the thought that crossed his mind. “When you walked in and found him, did you see any footprints in the blood around his body? A killer who goes off the deep end and commits a frantic act usually isn’t thinking of anything else—like avoiding leaving evidence.”
She rubbed at her eyes with both hands and then ran her fingers through all those curls. Her face was clean, like a child’s. No residue of makeup, not even leftover mascara. Fingernails were trimmed short and unpolished. She looked fresh and innocent. The woman standing before him didn’t fit the image he had envisioned all this time.
“I didn’t notice footprints. When I was being questioned, one of the deputies mentioned that there was no indication of a struggle. Nothing overturned. Nothing broken. He was just lying on the living room floor with blood all over him.”
“No one found this strange?” The idea annoyed Deacon far more than it should have.
“If they did, no one said as much to me. Mr. Frasier said they believed I walked in with the knife hidden under my sweater and that my first blow was the one that put him down. He didn’t struggle because he couldn’t.”
He saw her hands tremble before she crossed her arms over her chest, tucking them away from view.
“They found no prints,” she went on. “No nothing that pointed to anyone other than me.”
“Frasier seemed to believe the police didn’t pursue a real investigation,” he said, “because they already had their killer.”
“That’s exactly what they did.” She met his gaze again, determination in her own. “I’m not saying they didn’t do anything, but it wasn’t enough.”
“Cops are only human,” he reminded her.
She frowned, as if she had only just thought of something she should have recalled already. “Did you know Mr. Frasier?”
He hesitated, for a moment considered not telling her. “I spoke to him a few times.”
Realization dawned in her eyes. “Are you the private investigator he hired?”
That had been his first lie when he arrived in Winchester. He had made it a point to run into Frasier. Had told him he was interested in the Winters case. He had used the cover that he was a former FBI agent who had started his own PI firm and that he was interested in the case.
“I am.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Mr. Frasier died. That was the end of the investigation.”
“Did the two of you find anything? Discuss anything or come to
any conclusions I haven’t heard about?”
She was annoyed that he hadn’t told her this already.
“We didn’t. What we did was talk over the case and how it was investigated eight years ago.”
“You asked me all those questions to see what I would say.” The statement was an obvious accusation.
“I did. Old habits die hard.”
“You’ve already decided there’s nothing I can do to find the truth.”
Another accusation. “There’s a lot you can do, Cecelia. The question is whether it will change anything.”
In his opinion, it would not.
“I did not kill him.”
As much as he didn’t want to, he believed her. “Give me full access and I’ll see if I can help you find the truth.”
“What do you mean, full access?”
“Full access to you, to the case files.”
“You haven’t seen the files?”
“I haven’t seen the files through your eyes.”
She thought for a moment, the pulse at the base of her throat fluttering wildly. “All right. Where do we start?”
“Right now, we start with sleep. You’ve had a big day. I’ll be over in the morning and we’ll talk. See where we go from there.”
“Okay.”
“Good night, then. See you in the morning.”
He had almost made it to the back door when her voice stopped him.
“Thank you.”
He glanced back, studied the image of the woman who looked so alone, so worried and so damned innocent.
She could not be that innocent.
Chapter Five
Saturday, August 3
Twenty-four hours.
She had barely been home twenty-four hours and already people had thrown rocks at her and tried to burn down her barn.
“You’re wasting your time, Cece,” she muttered to herself.
She clutched her coffee cup more tightly and turned away from the window over the sink. All those years she had spent in prison she had told herself over and over that it didn’t matter what people thought. That she did not care if no one believed she was innocent. She couldn’t care less what these people thought of her.
