by Amelia Autin
“Oh, Annabel...” Holly tried to imagine someone doing that to Ian and Jamie, and could hardly fathom it.
Annabel sighed, then continued. “That’s what I meant when I said Chris and I reconnected in high school. We were eleven when we were separated. We didn’t meet again until then.”
Holly didn’t know any way of expressing the pain that speared through her for the brother and sister who’d been so ruthlessly torn apart. All she could say was “Oh, Annabel” again.
“Chris and I were close growing up. I was a bit of a tomboy—do they even use that word anymore? But we did nearly everything together. He was always protective—not just toward me, but toward our younger brothers and sister, too. Our mother’s death and the separation only exaggerated that trait in Chris. So when we reconnected in high school...” She shrugged. “There were some bullies who tried to pick on me because of...well, because of our serial-killer father. Chris helped me put a stop to it.”
“It sounds like him.” After she said it Holly was struck with the realization that she’d known Chris less than two days, but she already knew this much about him. It didn’t seem possible...but it was true.
Holly still had questions about Chris, however, questions she didn’t really want to ask him, and this seemed like the golden opportunity. She looked at Annabel and blurted out, “What was Laura like?”
Chris’s sister thought for a moment. “Sweet. Pretty. And she had a gentleness about her that was very appealing, especially to a man like Chris.” She hesitated, then added, “Chris was her world, and whatever he did was right. Good in some ways, not so good in others.” Annabel looked as if she could say more, but wouldn’t.
Holly digested this, then asked, “How did she die?”
“Viral meningitis.”
“Oh.” Holly stared blankly at Annabel. “I thought that was treatable.”
“It is...if you treat it in time. There was an outbreak in Fort Worth, and somehow Laura was exposed. She had all the classic symptoms—headache, stiff neck, fever. But she never mentioned it to Chris. By the time she called her sister, Peg—you know Peg, right?” Annabel said in an aside. “Isn’t that what Chris said?” Holly nodded and Annabel continued. “By the time Peg rushed her to the doctor she was in a really bad way. She was airlifted to Baylor Medical Center in Fort Worth, but she didn’t make it—she died en route.”
A wave of empathy for Chris enveloped Holly, because she could relate. Grant had been airlifted from the scene of the traffic accident that had taken his life, but he hadn’t made it to the hospital, either. “How horrible for Chris,” she whispered.
“He took it hard,” Annabel confirmed. “Especially since he blamed himself.”
“What do you mean? How could he— If Laura didn’t tell him she was feeling bad, how could he have known?”
“That’s something you’re going to have to ask him,” Annabel said with a guilty expression. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that much.” She sighed suddenly. “But here’s something maybe you should know, something Peg could tell you but probably didn’t. Laura was four months pregnant when she died.”
“Oh, my God.” Holly covered her mouth with one hand. Suddenly the statement Peg had made about Chris the last time she’d seen her friend made complete sense. “Peg told me—she said she couldn’t really explain, but she said Chris needed to take care of the twins and me. And I should let him. This must have been what she meant.”
“Probably.” Annabel’s blue eyes—so like her brother’s—held Holly’s gaze. “You haven’t known Chris very long, so you might not understand. Chris has a very stern conscience. He would never admit it, but he fervently believes in atonement. He knows you can’t change the past, no matter how much you might want to. But he does believe you can make up for it—if you’re willing to pay the price. And he is.”
Chapter 9
Chris drove the roughly seventy miles to Dallas in just over fifty minutes, with his foot on the accelerator of his F-150 and one eye on the rearview mirror, watching for the highway patrol. He’d gotten a couple of speeding tickets in his lifetime, but nothing that appeared on his driving record, and he wanted to keep it that way. Not enough to slow down—this was Texas after all—but enough to be semicautious.
He was pretty sure he remembered where the sports bar he was heading to was located, but he had his GPS on anyway, and he followed the directions. His tires squealed only slightly when he pulled into the parking lot, stopped the truck and got out.
Chris was accosted by a wall of television sets, all tuned to different sports channels, when he walked into the otherwise dimly lit sports bar. He glanced around, looking for the clothing Taylor had described the reporter would be wearing, but realized he didn’t need that help after all. Taylor was standing at the bar with the other man, both of them nursing beers and munching on bar snacks, when Taylor spotted Chris and waved him over.
The introductions were made swiftly, after which Chris murmured to his friend, “Afraid of being scooped?”
Taylor laughed. “No, but whatever you have to say to Roger, I want to know. Just in case.”
Chris ordered a longneck and a plate of nachos—he’d yet to meet a reporter who wasn’t hungry, literally as well as figuratively—then said, “Let’s get a booth. More privacy.”
Chris sipped his beer as the other two men dug into the nachos, then put the bottle down in front of him and abruptly said to Roger, “What do you know about Desmond Carlton?”
Roger swallowed. “Uh-uh. That’s not how this works. Taylor said you might have information for me related to the article I wrote on the man who was captured, one of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted.”
Chris shook his head and moved his beer bottle infinitesimally. “Quid pro quo,” he said. “Give and take. You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know. That’s how this works.”
Roger glanced at Taylor, who said, “I vouch for him, Roger. He’s never lied to me yet.”
Roger nodded thoughtfully. “Okay,” he told Chris. “What do you want to know?”
“Desmond Carlton.”
Roger shook his head. “I don’t know all that much. I’d been working on a story for a while, gathering whatever bits and pieces I could find on all the men on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list.” He grimaced. “Okay, so the angle was how long each man had been on the list, and why the FBI wasn’t making progress in catching them.”
Chris pursed his lips. “And?” he prompted.
“And then, boom! The FBI arrests one, and that angle kinda sorta went out the window. But my supervising editor said we could salvage at least part of the work I’d done by publishing what I’d uncovered on the guy, including his past history, the creeps he ran with, everything.”
Chris took another sip of his beer. “So how did Desmond Carlton’s name come into it?”
“He was collaterally associated with the perp the FBI arrested. But Carlton’s been dead for six years. Now that this guy’s finally been arrested, everybody associated with Carlton is either dead or behind bars. End of story.”
Chris mulled this over for a minute. “Not quite,” he told Roger. “Are you aware there’s not a single mention of Desmond Carlton on any search engine?”
Roger’s face betrayed him. “Yeah,” he said slowly, “I didn’t really focus on it, but now that you mention it, you’re right.”
“How did you find out the facts about him you included in your story?”
“The morgue had a few articles on Desmond Carlton,” Roger said, confirming Chris’s hunch. “Including one on his death six years ago. But remember,” he was quick to justify himself, “Carlton wasn’t the main focus of the story. So it never occurred to me...”
Taylor spoke up finally. “Are you saying someone wiped Desmond Carlton’s name out of every database?” He glanced
at Roger. “Now, that’s a story.”
“I don’t know who, and I don’t know why,” Chris admitted, “but yeah. Electronically Desmond Carlton is a ghost.” He slid his beer bottle back and forth between his hands, considering what more—if anything—he should reveal. Finally he reached a decision.
“Deep background, guys,” he said, his voice rough. His eyes met Roger’s, then Taylor’s. “Deal?”
Chris knew what he was asking. If Taylor and Roger agreed, they could never quote him on what he was about to disclose. They could only use his information if they could confirm it with other sources, sources willing to go on the record.
“Deal,” said Taylor, and Roger echoed, “Deal.”
Chris fixed his eyes on Roger. “In all your research, did the name Josie Colton ever come up in connection with Desmond Carlton in any way?”
Taylor blurted out, “Josie? You mean—” Chris kicked Taylor under the table, and his friend fell silent.
Roger thought a minute. “Josie Colton?” He shook his head regretfully. “Not that I recall, and I looked under every rock I could find.” Then he made the connection. “Wait a sec. Josie Colton. Wasn’t the FBI looking at her for the Alphabet Killer murders?”
Chris held back his sudden spurt of anger. “Not anymore.” He didn’t trust himself to say anything else at that moment.
Taylor, after one glance at Chris’s suddenly closed face, said, “That’s right. They’ve pretty much narrowed it down to Regina Willard, haven’t they?”
Chris nodded, hoping that was the end of the questioning, but Roger said, “Colton, huh? Any relation of yours?”
“My youngest sister,” he admitted reluctantly. But that was all he was going to say about Josie. No way was he going to mention her foster parents had the same last name as Desmond Carlton. No way was he going to reveal she’d been missing for six years, either—the same amount of time Desmond Carlton had been dead. If there was a connection...if Josie was somehow involved...
“You said you found an article in the morgue about Carlton’s death,” Chris said suddenly. “How did he die?”
“Shot to death. But there were no shell casings and someone even dug the bullets out of him, so there was very little to go on.”
“Was anyone ever arrested for it?”
“Nope,” Roger said. “The case is cold...not that anyone in the police department is losing sleep over it. Drug lord shot to death? A man who’d been a suspect in several murders but never arrested for any of them? The police probably figured whoever offed him was doing the public a favor taking him off the streets.”
Taylor elbowed Roger in the ribs. “What?” Roger exclaimed. “I’m not saying anything other people haven’t thought.”
“Yeah,” Taylor said. “But still...someone getting away with murder...it’s not right. Whoever killed Desmond Carlton is probably still out there. And if he killed once, he could kill again. And the next time it might not be someone who deserved to die.”
“Was there any mention of reprisals?” Chris asked. “Could Carlton’s murder have been the result of some kind of rivalry between drug cartels?”
“I never uncovered anything about that. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t drug related, but there was no mention of any kind of drug war in the newspapers in the months following Carlton’s death. I couldn’t find anything indicating he’d been killed in a coup within his own organization, either.”
Which brings me right back to Josie and her possible involvement, Chris thought but didn’t voice. He couldn’t imagine his baby sister killing anyone—he’d never really bought into the idea that Josie might be the Alphabet Killer, but he’d sure been glad when the finger of suspicion had finally pointed away from her. He also couldn’t imagine what connection Josie could have to a slain drug lord...except the coincidences of the time frame of her disappearance and her foster parents’ last name. Coincidences he didn’t trust.
Chris rubbed a hand over his jaw, then asked Roger one last question. “Are you planning any follow-up articles?”
“Nothing about Desmond Carlton, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He smiled briefly. “Yeah, that’s what I’m asking. Just wondered if you were holding anything back.” The way I am, he finished in his mind.
“Nope, not this time. But—” Roger held up one hand, palm outward “—if I find anything from other sources that ties Josie Colton to Desmond Carlton’s murder...all deals are off.”
“Understood.” Chris finished the dregs of his beer and stood. “Thanks, Roger. I owe you one.”
“Hey, what about me?” Taylor asked in a mock-serious tone.
“I bought you the nachos,” Chris said with a sudden grin. “We’re even.”
* * *
Evalinda McCay hummed to herself as she ruthlessly pruned the hydrangea bushes on either side of her front door. But she wasn’t really giving as much attention to her gardening as she usually did; she was thinking about Holly. Snip! went the shears, slicing effortlessly through the branches the way she could easily have sliced through her daughter-in-law’s throat.
I should have taken care of Holly myself, she acknowledged privately. She could have done it, too—no qualms assailed her about the course of action she’d decided on to get custody of the twins...and their all-too-tempting trust fund. Angus had protested at first, but he hadn’t been difficult to persuade—she’d been unilaterally making their major decisions for all the years they’d been married...and even before then.
If I had killed Holly, she’d be dead now, and all that money would already be mine.
But Angus had insisted they insulate themselves, make it appear to be an accident. Even more, he’d shrunk from having a direct hand in eliminating Holly, as if that made it less of a sin somehow.
Evalinda wasn’t worried about sin any more than she was worried about divine retribution. All she cared about was the money that would preserve their standing in the community. The income from the trust fund would eliminate their debt, would remove the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads and allow them to continue to live lavishly...the way she deserved.
It wasn’t just the income from the trust she intended to have, however—the principal was also in her long-range plans, although she hadn’t mentioned that to Angus yet. But first things first. Custody of the twins was the primary step. Everything else would follow from that. Which meant one way or another, Holly had to die. And soon.
* * *
That night, after the twins were in bed, Holly sought out Chris in his office. She tapped on the open door and said, “Knock, knock,” before she realized he was on the phone. Chris swung around in his chair, cell phone to his ear, and held up a finger to indicate his call was almost finished. “Thanks, Sam,” he said. “I appreciate it.” Then he disconnected.
“Hey,” he said to Holly. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk to you about the McCays,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb. “You said yesterday you wanted to set a trap for them, and I... Not that I’m not grateful for your hospitality,” she rushed to add. “I am. It’s a lovely house, and Ian and Jamie had a blast playing with Wally in the yard this morning.” One corner of her mouth quirked into a half smile. “Peg was right to insist we bring him. He has helped the boys adjust to this new place better than anything I could have thought of.”
“Boys and dogs,” Chris said softly. “Nothing like the bond that develops between boys and dogs.”
“Girls, too,” Holly was quick to point out. “I had a dog myself growing up, a cocker spaniel I named Chocolate Bar because she was such a rich brown color. I called her Chox for short. I got her for Christmas in first grade. She died when I was fifteen and I wept buckets.”
Chris’s eyes crinkled at the corners for just a moment, and though he didn’t say anything, Holly sensed there was a v
ery sad story somewhere in Chris’s past about a dog. She hurried to get back to her original subject. “Anyway,” she said, “I wanted to discuss that trap you mentioned.”
He leaned back in his chair with a creak of leather and indicated the sofa. “Have a seat,” he said. “It just so happens I was talking with my brother about this when you walked in.”
Holly sat. “You were?”
“Mmm-hmm. Sam agrees you can’t keep running. He also agrees setting a trap for the McCays is the way to go, but we have to be careful about entrapment. Which means—”
“We can’t entice them into committing an illegal act,” Holly said before he could. “I understand.”
A flash of admiration crossed Chris’s face. “Exactly. We can do this, but we have to plan it carefully. And of course, Sam’s concerned about using real bait.”
“You mean me.”
“Yeah. But I don’t think we have a choice. You’re the only way to draw them out into the open.”
Holly nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Sam’s also worried about the twins. No matter what kind of trap we set, there’s going to be some danger involved. He doesn’t want the twins around when we spring the trap. I don’t think you do, either.”
“Of course not.”
“So that means we need to stash them somewhere safe for the time being.”
Holly stared blankly at Chris. “You mean...turn my children over to a stranger?”
Chris shook his head. “No,” he said gently, and Holly realized despite his big, tough exterior, he really was a gentle man. “I’d never suggest that. But what about Peg? She’d do it for you, don’t you think? The boys know her and her kids. And Peg told me you and she have traded off babysitting for the past three months.”
“A few hours at a time,” Holly said faintly as a sense of suffocation overwhelmed her. “And never overnight.”
“If you’ve got a better idea, I’d like to hear it.”
