by Dawn Brown
Gwendolyn had left her first husband for Robert, and the months between their wedding date and Des’s birth weren’t even close to nine. The relationship had clearly begun while she was still married. Could she have been involved with another man while married to Robert? Was that why she’d wanted to leave him? The possibility certainly fit.
“I have no intention of exploiting or damaging your sister’s memory, nor do I want to hurt her loved ones. No matter what she did or didn’t do, she certainly didn’t deserve her fate, and neither did her son.”
“That may be, but, as I said, what good can dredging it all up do?”
“Hopefully, anyone who reads the book can learn from it. There are certain behaviors and personality traits common to men who murder their families. Perhaps someone might recognize those traits in their own relationship or that of a loved one, and the same tragedy could be prevented from occurring again.”
Ian watched her intently. Maybe he was protective of his niece and nephew, and not a total skeez, after all. Ally returned with their coffees, and Ian’s gaze fixed on her breasts jiggling against her fitted blouse.
Ick. Still a skeez.
“Could I get the check, please?” Shayne asked the waitress, handing over her credit card. Ally nodded and hurried away.
“Leaving so soon?” Ian asked.
“I’m afraid so. I have some shopping left to do.”
He leaned back. “I have to admit, you’ve provided a very convincing argument. I’d like to talk more about your book and my sister. Perhaps I could stop in at the cottage one evening.”
Not frickin’ likely. She grabbed her bag from beside her, produced a business card and handed it to him. “I don’t conduct interviews or meet with sources in my home, but, if you’d like to set up an appointment, please call me. I’d be happy to make the arrangements.”
She would have liked to tell him to get lost. Deep down, she didn’t believe for a moment he was interested in participating in her book, but he was the only Grey speaking to her willingly, and she couldn’t simply blow him off.
Ian’s gaze shifted to something over her shoulder and his beaming smile slid away.
“Vivian,” he said, his voice flat. “What are you doing here?”
Shayne turned as a scowling woman dressed in a pale yellow skirt that pulled a little too tightly at the hips made her way to their table. Her hair, a dull blonde and brittle from overprocessing, framed her round face in a pageboy cut.
Good, the wife. This should put a stop to his waitress ogling.
“I saw your car outside.” Vivian cast a withering glance at Shayne. “Am I interrupting?”
The woman didn’t actually think anything was going on between her and Ian, did she? The very idea threatened a reappearance of her chicken fettuccini.
“Not at all,” Shayne said, offering the woman a wide smile and her hand. “I’m Shayne Reynolds.”
Vivian’s unnaturally smooth forehead creased slightly. She barely gripped Shayne’s palm before her arm fell to her side. “The writer?”
“That’s right.” She dug out another business card and handed it to the woman. “I was telling your husband that should he change his mind about participating in the book, he could contact me and I’ll arrange an interview. I would like to extend the same offer to you.”
Vivian’s brown eyes narrowed, but she accepted the card.
Like a miracle, Ally returned with her credit card and receipt. After signing, Shayne gave the couple a tight smile.
“Good night. It was a pleasure meeting you both,” she lied.
“You be careful driving home, now,” Ian said, with a wink.
“It was the strike that did it,” Burt said, his voice slurred. “After the strike, people just lost interest in the sport. Hey, Anderson, you listenin’ to me?”
No, he wasn’t. Facing the tarnished mirror behind the bar, Des’s gaze locked with Tic’s and the delighted grin spreading across the big man’s face made his heart pound.
Shit. Here we go again.
On Saturday night, Smitty’s, the only bar the town tolerated—and only because Smitty, the owner, offered a reasonably priced family brunch on Sundays—was packed. Yet as crowded as the place was, no one seemed to notice the jackass standing perfectly still in front of the doors, gearing up to pound the living hell out of him.
“Well, well,” Tic said, taking a step toward him.
Des focused on his beer. How in the hell was he going to get out of this one? When he lifted his gaze back to Tic, skinny Wayne Norton was trying to tug the bigger man away, but Tic wouldn’t budge. He’d locked onto his target and wasn’t about to let him go.
When would this psycho lose interest? Hell, Tic had won. The poor girl he’d nearly killed in the parking lot of this very establishment had been too terrified to name him, let alone press charges. She’d left town, and without her story to back Des’s, Tic remained a free man. Now, he and his redneck pals dogged Des’s every move, and had been for the past six weeks. Ever since he’d pulled that nut job off the waitress.
Des clutched his nearly empty beer bottle around the neck and waited for the inevitable confrontation.
Instead, Tic grinned. “I’ll be looking for you later, Anderson.” He turned away, chuckling to himself, Wayne and Joey Grizzle following behind him until they were absorbed into the crowd.
Des let out the breath he’d been holding and ordered another beer. Beside him, Burt picked up his monologue as if the whole confrontation hadn’t happened—continuing to share his theories on the game of baseball as he did with anyone foolish enough to sit next to him—and not at all perturbed by Des’s obvious disinterest.
How was he going to get out of there without Tic beating the hell out of him—again? Christ, this crap with Tic was like dealing with a fifth-grade bully. Des closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. How much could one man be expected to deal with? First Julia and Heddi, then Tic and his boys, and hell, throw in Shayne Reynolds and her book for good measure.
He opened his eyes and looked back into the mirror, searching the sea of red- and green-checked tablecloths covering wobbly tables for Tic and his pals. They were nowhere in sight. He doubted the man would simply give up and go home.
Someone let out a loud whoop from the dance floor and a woman jeered. The steady country twang blasting from the jukebox, combined with the drunken frivolity surrounding him, grated his taut nerves. The hot air, thick with the combined stink of stale booze, smoke and body odor, closed in around him.
Without finishing his beer, he tossed some cash onto the bar top, muttered a quick good-bye to Burt and started for the door. He kept an eye out for Tic or any of his pals, trying to get a bead on him in the crowd, but the dim light and the veil of cigarette smoke made it virtually impossible.
Pushing out the door into the muggy night, the heavy air gripped him like a fist. Almost instantly sweat sprang to his skin. The storm earlier hadn’t done anything to alleviate the humidity, had only made it worse.
He cut across the gravel parking lot toward his car. As the rusted beast came into view, the urge to climb behind the wheel and drive straight out of town, not stopping until he was miles away from this place, made his hands itch. But he wouldn’t. After all, there was Julia to consider.
Christ, how many days and weeks and years stuck in this town going nowhere like a hamster in a wheel could he stand? As many as it took. A sick emptiness settled in the pit of his stomach.
Gravel crunched under unseen feet, and immediately he understood why he couldn’t find Tic in the bar. Joey and Wayne materialized from the darkness like storybook trolls.
“Looking for us?” Joey asked unoriginally.
“No,” Des replied, equally uninspired. He jammed his hands into his jean pockets. Now what?
“We got friends here, Anderson. Friends who let us out the back way so we could wait for you. Not like you. You don’t have any friends here.”
“Christ
, Joey. Are you going to steal my lunch money next?”
“Not quite.” Joey grinned, exposing his chipped front tooth. If it hadn’t been that Des was about to be pummeled, he might have found Joey’s attempt to reenact some larger-than-life action movie sadly amusing.
Wayne shifted from one foot to the other like a toddler in need of the bathroom. “I don’t like this, man.”
Still no sign of Tic. He probably waited behind him, cutting off any chance of retreating into the bar.
“We don’t like snitches,” Joey said.
Des shrugged. “I don’t like onions.”
Joey frowned, clearly confused by his response. “Look man, you should’ve just minded your own business.”
The memory of that woman’s screams, wild and terrified, barely human, still haunted him. Whatever Tic and his boys had planned, he was glad he hadn’t just minded his own business. He never would have been able to live with himself.
Something slammed into him from behind, catching him off guard and knocking the wind out of him as he hit the ground. Fierce pain seared his shoulder as his arm was yanked behind his back and pinned in place by a crushing weight. Sharp stones from the lot bit into the skin of his cheek and through the thin fabric of his shirt.
“When I’m done with you, you ain’t ever going to open your big mouth again,” Tic said, spraying the side of Des’s face with tiny drops of spittle. The mix of booze and smoke on Tic’s breath turned his stomach.
“I wouldn’t count on it.” Des could hardly get the words out. His lungs squeezed like they were slowly being flattened. “If I turn up dead or beaten so bad I can’t remember my own name, who’s the only person with a grudge against me?”
“Ah, hell, I don’t want to kill you.” Tic twisted his arm farther back. Red stars flashed in front of his eyes. His shoulder was ready to pop from the socket. What did they want him to do? Say uncle? “This is too much fun.”
For a moment, Tic released the pressure and the white-hot agony receded to a throbbing ache. The reprieve was short-lived. Tic’s fingers tangled in his hair as he yanked Des to his feet and shoved him into the side of a truck. His elbow struck the fender and pain exploded in his arm. But before Tic could get his hands on him again, Des caught him with a knee to the gut. The larger man grunted, wrapped his arms around his middle and dropped to his knees.
With Tic down, Des darted for his car. Joey grabbed for him, but only managed to get a handful of shirt. Des swung and struck him in the nose, grim satisfaction filling him when something crunched beneath his knuckles. Joey howled and doubled over, cursing.
For a moment, escape seemed like a real possibility. Des turned quickly, but something thick and solid struck him square across the face, sending him sprawling across the gravel lot. The stones scraped his hands and up his wrists.
When he looked up, Tic stood smiling over him, rubbing his fist into his palm. Slightly behind Tic, Norton looked nervously over his shoulder. “Maybe this ain’t the best place, man.”
In the distance, thunder rumbled low and menacing. Another storm was blowing in.
“Anderson,” Joey said, his voice muffled by his hands tepeed around his nose. Blood seeped between his fingers. “Everyone says how fucking smart you are, but that weren’t smart. That weren’t smart at all.”
Chapter Four
“While some fathers who kill do so as an attempt to clean the slate and start anew, others murder out of an overdeveloped sense of ownership of their families. This was believed to be the motive behind Gwendolyn Grey Anderson’s murder.”
—excerpt from Blood and Bone by Shayne Reynolds
The rain eased as the storm moved on. Shayne adjusted the pace of her windshield wipers from frantic pulse to leisurely swoosh and squinted into the darkness. Her turn should be coming up. At least, she hoped so. These back roads were difficult to navigate during the day, but next to impossible at night.
Well, she was almost home now, and—
A large, silver streak darted from the darkness and stopped across both lanes.
A car.
Her heart stopped. She stomped on the brake. The back end of her car swerved, tires sliding on wet pavement.
“Damn. Damn. Damn.”
She jerked the wheel hard, car skidding sideways. The other vehicle loomed closer.
“Shit!” She hunched her shoulders, tightened her grip on the steering wheel and waited for the inevitable crunch.
It never came.
Her car slid to a stop, the bumper less than a foot from the other car’s passenger door.
“Oh, my God.” She flopped against the seat, closing her eyes, relief flooding her trembling limbs.
That was close. Too close. She opened her eyes and leaned forward, prying her fingers from the steering wheel.
Fat drops of rain pelted the windshield. The yellow beams from her headlights gleamed off droplets on the side of the other car—a Rolls Royce, no less. Thank God, she hadn’t hit it. The last thing she needed was a car accident. Why would someone pull out like that? And then just sit there?
Alarm bells clanged inside her head, memories of Tic and threatening phone calls all-too vivid. Thunder rumbled, low and distant. Lightning flashed, and for a split second the night lit up like day. A large man lumbered toward her car, then darkness closed in once more.
Forget this. She wasn’t about to wait around for some psycho to rape and murder her at the side of the road. She threw the car into reverse, turned to look over her shoulder, but a large, square face pressed against the driver’s side window stopped her.
Not Tic, but the man’s grim expression did nothing to alleviate her growing anxiety. He moved his fist in tight circles, motioning for her to roll down her window. At least she hoped that’s what he was doing, and not threatening to punch her in the face.
“I have a message from Heddra Grey,” he said, voice muffled through the glass.
Shayne nipped at her lower lip, her heart beating frantically. Still, this was the closest she’d come to actually speaking to Heddra Grey. She pressed the power-window button, lowering the glass a half inch. “What message?”
“Mrs. Grey asks you stop work on your book. Her daughter’s loss was a painful event. She feels the past is best forgotten.”
He couldn’t have told her this over the phone? Or approached her in a well-lit public place? She recognized an intimidation tactic when she saw it.
“You work for Mrs. Grey, Mr.—?”
“Hudson. My name is Hudson.”
“Mr. Hudson, I have no intention of dropping this story. However, I would very much like to speak to Mrs. Grey about her daughter’s death. This could be an ideal opportunity for her to gain a sense of closure. Perhaps I could arrange an interview. I have a card here.”
Shayne leaned down to retrieve her bag from where it had fallen off the passenger’s seat and into the foot well. A metallic thud rattled the car. She jumped and glared at the man outside. Hudson stared back, his fist resting on the hood.
He better not have dented her car. She started to tell him, but his lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral snarl that turned her blood cold.
“I don’t think you understand—” he began.
“No, you don’t understand,” Shayne cut in with a bravado she didn’t quite feel. “This story is going to be told with or without Mrs. Grey’s consent. If she would like to contribute, I’d be happy to speak to her. Tell her she can reach me through her family’s realty office. Now. Move. Your. Car.”
For a long moment, Hudson peered at her without speaking. Shayne tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. At last, he straightened and turned away. As he marched past the front of her car, he swung his leg out. A hollow pop followed by tinkling glass reached her ears, and one of her headlights went dark.
“Son of a bitch!” She didn’t dare get out of the car, though. She was mad, not stupid.
He folded himself into the Rolls, pulled the car forward and drove away. Shayne stayed whe
re she was until his taillights disappeared into the darkness. Once certain he’d gone, she climbed out to inspect the damage.
The rain had tapered off to a fine drizzle, the droplets clinging to her hair and skin. She barely noticed as she ran her fingers blindly over the wet hood. The smooth metal sloped in a distinct dip.
The bastard had dented her car.
She trudged to the front end, her feet sinking in the mud. The remaining headlight cast a faint glow over the splintered plastic edging the dark hole of the broken lamp like jagged teeth around a gaping mouth.
Great. The perfect end to her day.
The sucking slop of footsteps in wet mud rose from the surrounding black. The hair on the back of her neck bristled, and a chill tickled along her spine.
Was it Hudson coming back to finish her off? Tic?
What was she doing standing around out here anyway? A woman alone, late at night, on a deserted country road, during a thunderstorm? The scene had slasher flick written all over it.
She started for the driver’s side door, but a low moan rose up from the darkness.
The wind? Had to be. Still, she picked up her pace.
The moan came again, louder this time. Shayne stopped and turned. A dark, hunched figure staggered toward her.
“Christ.” She gripped the door handle and yanked open the door.
The stooped outline lurched in front of her single headlight, and the glare illuminated the ugliest Hawaiian shirt she’d ever seen.
Des Anderson.
Relief swamped her like a tidal wave, turning her muscles soft for the second time in one night. The feeling, however, was short-lived. He may not have been the homicidal maniac she’d imagined, but the jerk had scared the life out of her. And all because he was staggering drunk. Even from this distance, the smell of beer was nearly overpowering.
As he pitched forward, the light cast a ghostly pallor over his face. Dark smudges beneath his left eye, along his lip and circling the edges of each nostril stood out from the stark whiteness of his skin.
Blood.
