“Yes, ma’am,” Fletcher told the thirtysomething jogger who apparently managed—determination over exhaustion, no doubt—to do her daily run behind a stroller carrying chubby twins. “That’s a good, detailed description. And you’ve never seen this man before?”
“Never.” She peered down the quiet, tree-lined street, well outside what the FBI believed was the target area. “And that’s what made me suspicious,” she explained. “Even if it wasn’t that car they showed in the Bee.”
Not even close. Fletcher would make a sizable bet the shooter would be smarter than to trade the nondescript Buick for a pumpkin-orange muscle car. Or even to risk being seen in daylight since the police sketch went national. There had been no reliable sightings since the night Fletcher followed the Buick off Macy’s street. The shooter either had successfully fled the area or was lying low somewhere.
“I didn’t like the way he was sort of checking out the neighborhood,” the jogger finished, jostling the stroller as one of her twins began to fuss. “And there are still a few foreclosures in here. One of them has been vacant for at least a year; the bank sees to it that the front lawn’s reasonably kept up, but who knows what’s going on inside? It’s not even on the market right now. Someone could easily hide in there. You know?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Between the Feds and local law enforcement, it had probably been checked off the list of vacant homes already. “If you know the address, I’ll drive by there right now. Give it a look. And I’ll pass on the information about the suspicious car to the deputies who work this area.”
“Thank you.” A flicker of anxiety crossed her face. “That bank manager, she was only two years older than I am. I don’t know how my husband would cope if he had to manage the boys without me, and . . . I just want this whole thing to be over with.”
“Keeping citizens safe is our top priority,” he told her, reminding himself that it was why he’d chosen law enforcement. For the chance to keep that promise. Service with Concern—it was painted right on his car.
Fletcher took down the address, then gave the young mother a card with the phone numbers for making reports. Then watched as she and her twin boys continued their jog through the neighborhood. His cell phone buzzed the instant he slid back into his patrol car.
“Bad time?” his mother asked.
“No. No problem.” Unless she’d been Macy. Fletcher almost called her after that voice message last night, but he still hadn’t figured out how to handle it. “What’s up?”
“Spaghetti,” she told him. “With Spanish olives and the last of that ground venison you brought us. And I wanted to be sure you’re not beating yourself up about the HLA test.”
“Maybe I should get a second opinion.”
“Maybe you should stop worrying and remember who’s in charge of this. Way bigger than both of us—even with Texas factored in.”
“Ma . . .” Fletcher didn’t know what to say, how to say it. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that viatical brochure on his mother’s kitchen table. And the horrible truth hit him like a fist in the gut: maybe, in the end, that self-serving weasel, Rush, could offer his parents more peace than he could. “It’s hard not to be doing something about this myself. I came here to do something. Help you. Not stand by and watch.”
“I know. But that’s the thing about faith.” Her voice was as gentle as when she used to purse her lips and blow a kiss onto his skin scrapes. “You have to wait. Hang in there.” There was the barest of chuckles. “Faith isn’t like a carton of milk. There’s no expiration date.”
“Right.” He frowned, scrolling through the updates on the car’s MDT computer.
“I forgot to ask when I invited you for dinner,” his mother added. “Are you seeing Macy tonight? She’s more than welcome to come for—”
“No. Macy’s busy. I’ll be there for dinner. And . . .”
“And?”
“I talked to Jessica last night. I was thinking maybe I’d try to take a couple days off and fly home. See some friends, check on the house—” He stopped short as dispatch voiced a pending prowler call. He scanned the text of the call on his MDT, put the patrol car in gear. “Gotta go. I’ve got a call. See you tonight.”
He keyed the mic and told the dispatcher, “94-Boy-1. I’ll take the 910 on Atwood. I’m about four away.”
“Copy, 94-Boy.”
Fletcher checked his mirrors and pulled away from the curb, stepped on the gas.
Possible prowler at a vacant house. Reported by a neighbor. He’d check it out. It would probably amount to nothing. But it wasn’t a pumpkin-orange muscle car, and it was within the shooter’s target area.
Macy balanced on the porch rail and stretched up precariously—Band-Aid pulling against the laser blister—to get her phone close enough to snap a photo of the nest. She smiled as another round of insistent and hungry peeps rose. A nest and baby birds. Tucked, somehow, into the porch overhang, only a few feet above the door of . . . our house. Our nest. Goose bumps rose. She couldn’t wait to show Leah. What could be a better sign of good luck than—?
“Swallows,” the perspiring middle-aged man told Macy, appearing at the edge of the porch.
“Oh, hi.” Macy rebalanced her footing and peered down at him. He’d been working in the yard next door, watching covertly as she waited for the Realtor. “It’s a swallow nest up there?”
“That’s right. Here.” He raised his metal rake and stepped closer, rubber thong sandals slapping. “Use the handle to knock it down. Couple of good pokes should do it.”
She stared at him. “There are babies in that nest. Can’t you hear them?”
“Junk birds—you don’t want to let them get a foothold. They always latch on right over the door.” He gave her a cursory once-over as she climbed down from the rail, brushed at her blouse. “You showing the place?”
“Meeting the Realtor.” Macy decided against telling him more. She worked during the day. Hopefully she’d rarely see this obnoxious neighbor.
A siren sounded in the distance, and the baby birds began another round of hopeful cheeps.
“Folks will tell you all kinds of things about how to discourage ’em,” the man continued, frowning at the nest. “Paint the overhang blue, squirt shaving cream up there, hang plastic owls, install those wire spikes . . .” He seemed to enjoy her grimace. “Doesn’t work. They’re stubborn little cusses. Knock them down when you first see them and then keep at it. That’s the only way they’ll get that they don’t belong there. Trust me.” He shrugged, glanced toward his house. “Well, I’d better get back to work.”
Macy watched as he ambled back to his yard. If she’d had some decent sleep, she wouldn’t let this guy get under her skin. “Junk birds . . . stubborn little cusses . . . don’t belong there . . .” If that man thought these little birds were stubborn, wait until he met his new neighbors. Maybe she’d ask the Realtor if the contractor could install wire spikes to keep him from being a nuisance.
She chuckled aloud, then glanced at the time display on her cell phone. If the Realtor ever got here, that is. Fifteen minutes late now. She’d left a voice mail, but he hadn’t called back. No one was returning calls, it seemed. Only a short all-okay text from Leah after her doctor’s appointment today; they’d had a cancellation and squeezed her in early. There were no return messages from Elliot . . . or Fletcher. Still no word from Fletcher.
Stop it. I’m moving forward.
Macy stooped down to pick up the brass door set and crossed to the red-lacquered door. She eyed the cheap, temporary latch the bank had installed after the previous owner removed the original. Doubt crept in—would Nonni’s set fit this door? Were these measurements standard? She had no clue. Her learning curve as a homeowner was going to be as steep as the face of El Capitan.
“Macy.”
She turned, dropping a screw from the door set.
“Elliot. You scared me.”
Two blocks from the address of the prowler call, Fletcher’s r
adio squawked with an update. “94-Boy-1, be advised: Neighbor reports possible smoke from windows at the Atwood Court address. Fire has been dispatched. Unknown if suspect is still on scene.”
“94-Boy. Copy. Be there in two.” Fletcher slid the lever for the siren and lights. “I’ll be going code.”
Arson?
40
THE BRANCHES OVERHANGING THE ROOF provided shade—and cover. He’d counted on that. He let himself remember, as he hunkered into position on the shingles, the carving he’d done in the trunk of his neighbor’s old tree all those years ago. Not his initials or some girl’s name. Just five simple gouge marks in the thick bark: four in a row, one slashed diagonally across them—the toughest segment to cut. He’d sliced his finger doing it. Even left a little blood behind.
Five marks. For each of his neighbors’ missing cats. His father wouldn’t have liked it. And he would have hated the rest of this . . .
He looked back toward the house, saw smoke escaping from the windows on the driveway side now. It wouldn’t be long before flames were visible. Before his father’s home was fully engulfed—gone before they could slam down the gavel, take it away like they had everything else. At least his father hadn’t lived to see it all play out.
He closed his eyes, remembering his father’s age-lined face again, his milky-blue eyes. The way he’d looked on that last day. Had Abe Archer smiled, just a little, when his son kissed his forehead? And when he finally dozed off, did he dream of the times they’d shared . . . the dogs, bedrolls, campfires, that old canoe? And . . . He took a slow breath. Did he know it was me holding the pillow over his face?
No. It didn’t matter now. It would all be over soon.
Ned Archer lifted the Browning .270 from the shingles, balanced it expertly in his hands. He sighted down the driveway. The sirens were close. It would only be a matter of minutes now. If he’d cut tally marks on that tree for this new hunt, it would have been only two kills so far. The woman and the dog.
Today there would be more. And he’d leave some of his own blood behind again.
“I’m surprised to see you, that’s all,” Macy explained as she walked ahead of Elliot into the empty house. Her footfalls echoed on the hardwood floor like a sound effect in a low-budget horror movie. She looked for a spot to lay the brass door set down and finally put it on the ledge of the small pass-through window that connected the dining room with the kitchen. Then she turned to look at him, feeling strangely uncomfortable. But it was bound to feel awkward, considering their recent history. “Stan wasn’t available after all?”
Elliot’s prolonged silence did nothing to put Macy at ease. “Stan had several appointments,” he said finally. “I told him I would handle this.”
This? For some reason, Macy thought of the neighbor with the rake.
“I brought the copies of your agreement with the contractor,” he added, resting his briefcase against the dining room wall.
“Good. I appreciate it.” Macy cleared her throat, determined to retrieve that happy feeling she’d had when she first found the good-omen bird nest. The questions she had regarding Charly Holt could wait a bit; right now she wanted to savor her future. Elliot wasn’t going to spoil it for her.
“I told Stan I wanted to take some photos,” she said, reaching up to admire the wood trim framing the pass-through window. “Mostly for my sister. But also to get some ideas for carpet, paint colors, and decorating. Stan said he knew a contractor with contacts at discount places. I won’t spend a lot, but I want to make it feel homey. For us and for when people come to visit us here. So—”
“He’s wrong for you, Macy.”
She thought for a moment that Elliot was talking about the contractor, but the look on his face warned of the same dialogue he’d pressed in his office. He stepped closer and Macy suspected he’d been drinking this time too. Reddened eyes and his breath—“I’m not going to have this conversation, Elliot.”
“Don’t talk; listen.” His eyes darted back and forth. “Whatever Holt told you is a lie,” he sputtered. “I don’t know how he ever got past the psychological exam. He’s paranoid, dangerous, and—”
“Did you do that?” Macy forced Elliot to meet her gaze but kept her voice calm. “Did you send his mother information about selling her life insurance policy? Without her request? And then imply I had something to do with it?”
“The brochure had our address stamped on it. He didn’t have the envelope. Holt could have picked it up anywhere.” Elliot swept his fingers through his thinning hair, his agitation mounting. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s trying to drive a wedge between us, Macy. He can’t handle that our relationship has spanned years and has grown into something—”
“You told him about the trust money,” Macy blurted. The last thing she wanted was to taint this hopeful house with bitter accusations but . . . “You compromised my privacy. You had no right to do that.”
Elliot’s eyes narrowed. “And what exactly do you think he wants to compromise? What do you think that street cop’s sniffing after? He only wants one thing. He doesn’t see you like I do, Macy. He doesn’t admire you for all you’ve accomplished, for who you are. Fletcher Holt couldn’t care less that you’re intelligent and savvy . . . and yes, a person of substantial means because of that. And because of me. Holt looks at you the way he looks at every conquest. He only sees a very desirable woman with amazing eyes, long legs . . .” His gaze fixed on her blouse. “And such beautiful—”
“Stop it,” Macy demanded, repulsed. “What is this? Don’t say another word. This is making me ill.” Her eyes widened as he grasped her arm. She pulled back, but his grip tightened. “Let go of me, Elliot. Right now.”
“Please,” he begged, loosening his grip only slightly. “Can’t you see that I’m only trying to protect you? I’ve been doing that since you were a kid. I know you better than anyone does. You know me. I would do anything for you, anything. Please, listen to—”
“Let go.”
“There!” He dropped her arm, then leaned so close that saliva speckled her face as he continued his rant. “You know, you should be a lot more grateful. Where do you think you’d be without me? Maybe living like your mother did? Turning tricks out on the—”
“Don’t!” Macy stepped back, anger giving way to disbelief. Then horror as he lurched forward again, making her stumble backward until her spine smacked against the dining room wall. He pressed closer still, grunting. Pinning her. Macy shoved against his chest. “No . . . stop.”
“You should be a lot more grateful,” Elliot growled, grabbing at her hair. Macy thrashed, turned her head as his mouth connected with her cheek, then slid under her jaw to her throat. “Macy . . .”
Kick him!
“No!” Macy fought as Elliot’s hands tore at her blouse, sweaty fingers fumbling with her bra. “Get off me!”
“C’mon . . . relax . . .” Elliot’s mouth sought hers again.
Macy shoved back, tried to bring her knee up between his legs.
“Don’t you dare, you little—”
Elliot’s obscenity dissolved in a guttural growl as he wrenched her left wrist, hard. There was a pop, pain so intense it made her gag. He slammed Macy against the wall again, yanking her injured arm over her head. But her right hand remained mercifully free, and she stretched it out, searching for . . . hoping . . . Please, please.
There.
Elliot began pulling her down to the floor.
She raised the brass door set high and slammed it hard against his skull. He cried out, staggered backward, and fell.
Macy sprinted for the door.
“Barricades in place,” the volunteer firefighter reported, wiping a beefy hand across his brow. He glanced toward the house, a scant ten yards up the driveway. They’d pulled the water tender in, parked close to the garage. Flames licked at the windows of a room on the second story. “We’re keeping the looky-loos back. Neighbors. You know.”
“Yeah.” Fletcher had
been on scene barely seven minutes and had already escorted an elderly woman home twice, but she’d pushed her way back through the hedge. She was the next-door neighbor who’d first reported the possible prowler and the subsequent smoke. She wanted to make certain Fletcher recorded all of her observations—along with some extraneous and long-winded history about a man with Alzheimer’s and his very nice son who’d tried so hard to hold on to the house. Fletcher squinted toward the porch, thinking he’d been here before. Not on any call he could remember but . . .
“Arson team is on the way,” the firefighter added, raising his voice over the insistent chug of the tender truck. “You didn’t see anybody when you looked around?”
“No.” It had been a cursory inspection; the firefighters needed to get in. But Fletcher would buy the arson idea—it fit from the 911 sequence—except that the neighbor woman said the house was bank owned and scheduled for auction. It wasn’t like a foreclosed homeowner could collect on insurance. The house hadn’t been sitting empty as long as some, from the looks of it. But long enough for the back lawn to grow weeds and thistles knee-high; Fletcher could vouch for that. And it had been vacant enough time for its windows to be shattered by vandals. The garage windows were covered with plywood.
“Let’s get some hoses in here!” a firefighter shouted as smoke billowed out from the open garage. “And we better roll this old car out.”
Car?
Fletcher squinted, pulse quickening. Couldn’t be . . . Is it? He broke into a jog, one hand on his radio. Ready to—
A sharp crack split the air.
The firefighter dropped in the driveway, bleeding.
God . . . no.
“Down, down! Everybody, down!” Fletcher drew his weapon and hunkered low, scuttling for cover. “94-Boy—shots fired! Firefighter down,” he radioed as he attempted to gauge the trajectory of the shot. “Be advised: vehicle in garage fits description of—”
By Your Side Page 26
