Dead By Morning

by Beverly Barton

  And then all of her feelings of joy disappeared and a dark, foreboding fear claimed her. The hum of an engine grew louder and louder, and louder still, until it drowned out every other sound, every thought, every feeling.

  She gasped for air, trying to escape from the onslaught of the roaring engine, and fought her way back to rejoin her mind with her body. Her head ached. Her stomach lurched with nausea.

  As she slowly opened her eyes, the gun she had been clutching dropped from her weak hand and hit the floor. “He’s on an airplane.”

  “Right now?” Luke asked. “Is he on an airplane right now?”

  She stared at Luke. “Either now or very recently. He’s coming toward me.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “He’s coming toward me,” she repeated half a second before she collapsed in a heap at Luke’s feet.

  When Maleah and Derek had arrived at Griffin’s Rest late yesterday, they had found a high level of anxiety that spread from the very top and filtered its way down through every employee. If they thought security had been tight when they left there the last time, they found out as they drove through the security gates just how much tighter it could be. Barbara Jean had met them at the front door, and Maleah had noticed Brendan Richter hovering in the background.

  “My God, you’d think we were being invaded,” Maleah had said as she entered the foyer. “Is all of this because of Saxon Chappelle’s niece?”

  “Partly,” Barbara Jean had replied as she’d glanced from Maleah to Derek. “Sanders is waiting for you in the office. He needs to speak to you now.” She had looked up at Maleah. “Nicole wants to talk to you. She’s upstairs in her sitting room.”

  After that, Maleah hadn’t seen Derek again last night. How long he spent in the auxiliary Powell office headquarters there at Griffin’s Rest, she didn’t know. Nor did she have any idea where he’d slept or if he had slept. She had spent more than two hours with Nic, after being allowed entrance into Nic’s bedroom suite by her private guard dog, Shaughnessy Hood. One look at her best friend and she had realized just how bad things were with her and Griff. Nic had looked like death warmed over.

  “If you think I look bad, you should see Griff,” Nic had said. “He was in rough shape before Poppy Chappelle was killed, but now . . . Oh, Maleah, I’m worried sick about him. I haven’t seen him all day. He hasn’t ventured out of his den and my guess is that by now he’s drunk himself into a stupor and passed out.”

  Unlike the other Powell agents who were assigned a bedroom in the house when they rotated shifts at Griffin’s Rest, Maleah had her own room, a perk of being Nic’s best friend. Since she spent almost as much time here as she did in her Knoxville apartment, she kept several changes of clothes in the closet and an assortment of toiletries in her private bathroom.

  When she had finally gotten in bed well past midnight, she had tossed and turned for nearly an hour before dozing off to sleep. And she had awakened at a little after six, feeling a bit groggy and sleep-deprived. Her first thought had been about Derek. She had wondered if he was awake and if he was, had he already gone downstairs for breakfast. Odd that she should have had such an overwhelming desire to see him, talk to him, be with him.

  Now less than an hour later, freshly showered, dressed for the day in tan twill slacks and a black, short-sleeved cotton sweater set, she found herself taking more time than usual to apply her makeup and fix her hair.

  This is ridiculous. You’re primping like a teenager getting ready for the prom.

  She stared at herself in the vanity mirror, her long hair framing her face as it fell in layers down to her shoulders. She had even taken great pains to use a curling iron to style her hair.

  All because you want Derek Lawrence to find you attractive. And don’t you dare try to deny it.

  She couldn’t deny it. Not to herself and not to the reflection staring back at her from the mirror. “All right, so what’s the big deal? Why shouldn’t I want to look my best this morning?”

  While in the midst of having an in-depth conversation with herself, Maleah heard a repetitive rapping at her bedroom door. It might be Nic, even though she hoped her friend was in bed with her husband, the two of them getting some much needed rest. But more than likely Griff was still in his study and Nic had lain awake half the night worrying herself sick about him.

  When she opened the door, she halfway expected to see either Nic or Barbara Jean, but instead Derek stood there, a dead serious expression on his handsome face.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “How are you today?” he asked.

  “I’m fine, all things considered. How about you?”

  “I’ve been better,” he admitted. “May I come in?”

  “Sure.” She moved back so that he could enter, and then she closed the door before asking, “What’s wrong?”

  “I was up until after one this morning,” Derek said. “Helping Sanders with Griff. He . . . uh . . . he drank a little too much. We managed to walk him into the bathroom connected to his study, put him in the shower and finally got him into a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Sanders sent me on to bed around one-fifteen. I think he sat up all night while Griff slept it off on the sofa.”

  “I was with Nic until well after midnight. She wasn’t drinking, but she wasn’t in much better shape. She’s worried about Griff and she figured he was drinking.” She stared at Derek. “Tell me why a man who professes to worship the ground his wife walks on shuts her out the way Griff does Nic when he needs her the most. The way he’s acting is killing her.”

  “I’ve told you that big strong men don’t like to appear weak in front of their women. No matter how misguided his actions, Griff’s intention is to protect Nic. He didn’t want her to see him the way he was last night.”

  “Men! I don’t understand any of you.”

  “That works both ways, Blondie. We men don’t understand you women either.” He looked her over and smiled. “You sure do look pretty this morning.”

  She felt the warmth of a blush creep up her neck. Turning away from him, she picked up a pair of small pearl studs off her dresser. “Thank you for the compliment.” She slipped one stud and then the other through the holes in her ears before turning back around to face Derek. “Have you been downstairs yet?”

  “I went down for a cup of coffee about fifteen minutes ago. Sanders and Barbara Jean are in the kitchen preparing pancakes and sausage. I spoke to Griff briefly before he came upstairs to see Nic.”

  “Then they’re together now?”

  Derek nodded. “Griff has a meeting planned for ten this morning in his office here at the house.”

  “Who’s being invited to this meeting?”

  “Only the people Griff and Nic trust with their lives—Sanders, Barbara Jean, you, me, and Yvette.”

  She hadn’t realized that her expression had altered in any way at the mention of Dr. Yvette Meng, not until Derek said, “Making a face like that is a dead giveaway, you know. It implies that you don’t like Dr. Meng.”

  “It’s not that I dislike Yvette. I don’t. She seems like a very nice lady, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Her presence here at Griffin’s Rest creates problems for Nic, for her marriage.”

  “It shouldn’t,” Derek said. “Yvette Meng isn’t a threat to Nic’s marriage. If ever a man was completely in love with his wife and totally dedicated to his marriage, that man is Griffin Powell.”

  “Is that your professional opinion?”

  “That’s my gut instinct. If there was anything more than friendship between Griff and Yvette, it’s in the past, and Nic needs to believe that.”

  “So you do think there was something more than—?”

  “Whoa there, Blondie. Don’t put words in my mouth. I said if there was.”

  Maleah felt the need to defend Nic. “I think Nic has every right to feel the way she does. How would you like it if the woman you loved moved a dear old friend, who j
ust happened to be male, into your home? And you knew with absolute certainty that she loved this man?”

  “There’s love and then there’s love,” Derek said. “I’m surprised that a woman such as Nicole Powell would be so insecure.”

  “Loving someone the way she loves Griff can make a woman vulnerable, even someone like Nic.”

  “Yeah, love can make us all vulnerable,” Derek agreed. “And to answer your question—no, I wouldn’t like it if the woman I loved brought an old friend whom she loved into our lives on a daily basis, had him practically living at our back door, especially if I thought they had once been lovers. But I’d deal with it somehow, if the only alternative was giving up the woman I loved.”

  “That’s what Nic is doing, what she’s been doing ever since Griff built the sanctuary for Yvette and her protégés here at Griffin’s Rest.”

  “You disagree, don’t you?” Derek asked. “What would you do? How would you handle the situation differently?”

  Maleah hesitated, uncertain just how honest she should be with him. To hell with it. “If I were in Nic’s shoes, I’d tell Griff to choose. He could either have Yvette living within a stone’s throw of us, a constant presence in our lives, or he could have me. If he didn’t move her out, then I’d leave.”

  “Why do you think Nic hasn’t done that?”

  “I think the answer to that would be obvious.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “No.” She had already said too much about her best friend’s personal life. Her only excuse was that it had become so easy to talk to Derek.

  “Nic’s afraid that if she demands he make a choice between Yvette and her, he might choose Yvette,” Derek said. “That’s the reason.”

  Maleah didn’t confirm his assessment of the situation, but she wasn’t the least bit surprised that he had zeroed in on the exact reason.

  “I’m hungry,” she said, deliberately changing the subject. “Let’s eat breakfast. I love Barbara Jean’s pancakes.”

  Derek nodded, and then opened the door and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

  She slipped her arm through his. “Derek?”

  “Hmm . . . ?”

  “I don’t think I ever thanked you properly.”

  “For what?”

  “For looking out for me after that last interview with Browning.” It had been on the tip of her tongue to say, thank you for taking such good care of me. For holding me, comforting me, letting me draw strength from you.

  “Hey, no problem, Blondie. That’s what partners do, right?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Why was it that she wished he’d said he had done it because he cared about her and not just because they were partners?

  The phone rang at precisely at 7:30 A.M. that morning.

  “Well, hello there. What a nice surprise to hear from you. How are y’all doing? How’s—?”

  “Listen very carefully,” he said. “You are going to receive a phone call later today with instructions on what you have to do, and if you don’t do exactly as he tells you to do, she’s going to die.”

  “What are you talking about? Who’s going to call me? Who’s going to die?”

  The caller explained about the kidnapping, that the person they both loved had been kidnapped, taken from her bed in the middle of the night, and a note had been left on her pillow. Someone had managed to break in through an upstairs bathroom window, go into her bedroom and abduct her without anyone being the wiser.

  Whoever had taken her was not an amateur. He had to be a professional.

  Had the Copycat Carver taken her? If so, why had he changed his MO? Why had he kidnapped her instead of killing her? It didn’t make any sense.

  “You understand, don’t you?” the caller asked. “If you don’t do what he tells you to do, we’ll never see her alive again. Please, please tell me that you’ll do whatever he asks you to do.”

  “Yes, of course I will.”

  “Swear to me.”

  “I swear.”

  The reality of the situation was difficult to grasp. This was a nightmare of monumental proportions. Life or death. But no matter what the instructions or how difficult the assignment, the orders would be carried out. There was only one choice—to do whatever was necessary to save her life.

  Chapter 31

  The private jet had landed safely at Heathrow. He and his employer’s guest, both equipped with false IDs, including passports, zipped through customs without a problem. When she had awakened en route, frightened and confused, he had explained in simple terms what had happened, what was going on, and what he expected her to do. And quite amazingly, she had not screamed or cried. Undoubtedly, she was suffering from a mild form of shock, which actually worked in his favor.

  As a general rule, he didn’t hire out as a kidnapper. Too many things could go wrong. Murder for hire, on the other hand, was his forte. A quick, clean and simple kill. If the money had not proven to be irresistible, he would never have taken on the current assignment.

  Until they had cleared customs, he didn’t draw an easy breath. Anything might have happened. But he had warned her that he would kill her if she did not cooperate. He had learned long ago that fear was a great inducement in gaining obedience, especially from females.

  After picking up a hired car, he placed her in the backseat, forced a couple of sleeping pills down her throat and told her to lie down and keep quiet. She had choked on the pills and had coughed and cried. When he had wiped the tears from her cheeks, she had gazed at him with fear and wonder.

  “Be a good girl and you’ll come out of this alive. Understand?”

  She had nodded, but said nothing.

  Using the GPS system provided with the rental vehicle, he had no trouble navigating through the city and after less than an hour, he drove through the thousand-year-old town of Harpenden, located in Hertfordshire. Tourists as well as London residents no doubt flocked here because of the town’s traditional English village atmosphere.

  A few miles out of town, they arrived at their destination, a secluded house surrounded by trees and isolated from any prying neighbors. He parked the rental behind the house, opened the back door and lifted her into his arms. She would probably sleep for several more hours, possibly the rest of the day.

  As he had been told, he found the back door unlocked and the key lying on the kitchen table. He carried her through the kitchen and down a narrow hall until he located a small bedroom with only one window. After laying her on the double bed, he covered her with a quilt. He checked the window and found that it was sealed shut with countless layers of paint that had been applied over the years. Leaving the door open behind him, he returned to the kitchen, pulled out a chair from the table and sat. Checking his mobile phone, he found there was decent coverage here in the country. He dialed the number that he had memorized and waited for his employer to answer.

  “You’ve arrived safely with my guest?”

  “We’re at the house. I didn’t encounter any problems.”

  “How is my guest?”

  “Right now, she’s sleeping.”

  “Then now is the perfect time for you to make another phone call. Memorize the instructions I will give you and repeat them word for word.”

  “Very well.”

  He listened as his employer told him in quite succinct terms about his plan and the message he was to relay, word for word.

  “Now, repeat it back to me.”

  He did as he had been instructed.

  “Yes, you have it precisely. As soon as we end our conversation, make the phone call. Be sure it is understood that you will call again for an update and to give further instructions.”

  “I understand and I’ll stress the importance of following your instructions to the letter.”

  “Yes, yes. And in the meanwhile, take good care of my guest. She’s very important, at least for the time being.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His employer never bothered with ple
asantries nor did he. Their association was strictly business.

  He would enjoy a cup of tea, but first things first. He walked down the hall, checked to make sure she was still sleeping soundly and then returned to the kitchen. Standing by the windows overlooking the private garden in back, he dialed another memorized number.

  “Hello.” Such a nervous, frightened voice.

  “Listen very carefully,” he said. “I will not repeat these instructions. You are to do exactly as I tell you. If you do not—”

  “Don’t hurt her. Please. I will do whatever you want me to do.”

  “Good. If you cooperate fully, then she has a good chance of coming through this unharmed.”

  Luke Sentell had spent the day waiting for Meredith Sinclair to recover from whatever kind of spell she’d had that morning. He didn’t pretend to understand what made the woman tick, any more than he could believe without question the validity of her psychic abilities. If he couldn’t see it, smell it, hear it, taste it, or feel it, it didn’t exist. Not in his world. Not for any normal, logical human being. And yet he had seen Meredith work her hoodoo on several occasions and without fail, her visions—or whatever the hell you wanted to call them—had proven to be accurate.

  He sorely wished that his path had never crossed with Meredith’s, that Griffin Powell had not chosen him to accompany them on his initial European manhunt when rumors about Malcolm York had first begun circulating. His boss had brought Meredith along, using her as his bloodhound, hoping she could sniff out who had started the rumors. Griff had assigned him as Meredith’s personal bodyguard. The job had quickly become a combination of babysitter and nursemaid. Whenever Meredith had come out of one of her trances, she would sleep for hours, as if whatever she had experienced had zapped every ounce of her energy.

  A really crazy thing had happened on that first partnership with Meredith, and every subsequent time they had been together. For some unknown reason, whenever he was around, his presence seemed to fine tune her sixth sense. He had no idea why. Considering he was a skeptic, you’d think having him around would have an adverse effect. Instead the opposite was true. He had to accept the truth—it was what it was. And that’s why he was here with her now, the two of them stuck with each other on another manhunt.