Epiphany (Legacy of Payne)

by Christina Jean Michaels

  Exciting? Is that what people were calling it? The town’s grapevine continued to amaze me.

  “What can I get for you?” I asked, hoping to steer him away from that particular subject.

  “I’ll take a Coors Light.” He plopped onto a barstool. “So, did the guy really have a knife?”

  Popping the cap off his beer, I nodded. “He didn’t get a chance to use it though. Aidan was lucky.”

  Brad raised a brow. “So you know the guy that was attacked?”

  “Not really.” I set the bottle down with a thud. “He’s a customer.”

  The guy sitting three barstools down let out a snort. “Customer my ass. The guy’s trouble.”

  I stilled at the man’s tone. He’d been a permanent fixture at the counter for the past two hours, but I’d given him a wide berth, sensing he wanted to be left alone. Now he had my full attention. “What do you know about Aidan?”

  “I know he was sniffing around Chloe before she was killed.” He looked up then, and his dark hair partially obscured his green eyes but failed to disguise the malevolence in them. He crossed his arms and his sleeves inched up to reveal the tattoos hiding underneath. “You should think twice before entering dark alleys. You never know when nosy girls might end up dead.”

  My body went cold. Brad jumped up before I could formulate a reply. “Are you threatening her?” He towered over the guy, who in turn appeared unfazed.

  “I’m suggesting she mind her own damn business next time.” He got to his feet and shoved Brad back by a few inches. “And so should you.”

  Brad returned the shove, and an instant later they were throwing punches and knocking over barstools. The guy grabbed a glass from the counter and broke it over Brad’s head.

  “Hey! Stop it!” I screamed.

  Mike rushed from the back. “Break it up!” He and another customer forced the two apart, and the guy who’d started the fight shrugged free and bolted.

  “What the hell happened?” Mike asked. “Do I need to call the cops?”

  “He threatened Mac,” Brad explained, “then he thought he’d get tough with me.”

  “Are you okay?” Mike looked at me.

  “I’m okay.”

  “I’ll call it in.” He picked up the phone and gestured toward Brad. “You might want to see to that cut.”

  My eyes widened at the sight of blood trickling from his hairline. “You’re bleeding.” I pulled the first-aid kit from underneath the register and rounded the bar.

  “And you’re shaking,” Brad said.

  I hadn’t noticed how unsteady my hands were until he mentioned it; they visibly shook as I opened a package of gauze. I soaked it with antiseptic and dabbed at his wound.

  “Thanks.” He pressed his fingers over mine, stilling my ministrations.

  I withdrew my hand and put a few more inches of space between us. Glancing around the bar, I half expected the maniac to come charging at any moment. Most of the customers had gone back to their drinks and conversation, and a couple even danced to a grating hip-hop song playing on the jukebox. A few stragglers still aimed curious and sympathetic stares our way.

  Mike hung up the phone. “Cops are on their way. You’re too shaken—go take a break while we wait.”

  I let Brad lead me to an isolated table in the corner of the room, where I collapsed into a chair.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Just shaken.”

  “It’s understandable.” He removed the gauze and winced at the sight of bright red blood. “That’ll leave a mark.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” I said, waving toward the counter.

  “Are you serious? It wasn’t your fault. The jerk was threatening you, Mac.”

  I recoiled from the nickname, but considering how he’d jumped to my defense, I let it slide.

  “Still, I’m sorry you got hurt.”

  Brad shot me a sly grin. “How about you make it up to me? Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

  His words made me tense up again. “I have to work,” I said, taking the easy way out, though I figured he wouldn’t give up so easily.

  “Maybe Six can cover for you.”

  “She’s on tomorrow too.”

  His gaze darted around the bar before settling on me again. “It’s just dinner.”

  I lowered my head, and a different face entered my mind, a face with the sexiest brown eyes imaginable. “Brad, I think you’re a great guy, I just . . . can’t.”

  “You can’t eat?”

  I let out a frustrated sigh. “I can’t have dinner with you.” Having dinner meant it was a date, and dates tended to be shrouded in expectation.

  “I hear there’s an art exhibit this weekend at City Hall. You draw, right?”

  I stared at him, surprised. “Yeah, who told you?”

  “I asked around. Small town,” he said with a shrug. “People talk.”

  Right . . . the Watcher’s Point grapevine. I wondered if he’d heard about my mom’s supposed affairs and the speculation that William Beckmeyer was my father. Had it been the same small town rumors that caused her to leave town before I was born?

  Now William Beckmeyer was dead, and Thomas Hill—the man I’d thought was my father—had died before I’d taken my first breath. If only I could get Christie to do a sibling DNA test, the results would give me indisputable proof.

  “So whaddya say?” Brad’s voice broke through my chaotic thoughts. “Wanna go this weekend?”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  His reply was lost to me as the front door creaked open, giving me hope that the police had arrived. The sooner they showed up, the sooner I could get back to work, safe behind the counter and from Brad’s pressure tactics.

  I froze when I saw Aidan. He stood inside the front entrance, suddenly just there. Like he belonged. Like being in the same room was the most natural thing in the world. His attention landed on me, and he closed the distance between us, causing my heart to flutter.

  “Hi.” He shifted his gaze between Brad and me. “I’m sorry, I’m probably interrupting.”

  Brad opened his mouth, but a quick shake of my head silenced him. “No,” I said. “Actually, I need to talk to you.”

  “I should get going,” Brad muttered, his chair scraping across the floor as he stood. He hesitated, eyes darting back and forth between Aidan and me. “Talk to you later, Mac.” He walked away, and the bounce in his step was gone; now his feet hit the floor in a way closer to stomping. I’d wager he wasn’t used to being told no.

  Aidan took the seat Brad had vacated. “He doesn’t seem too happy.”

  “Don’t mind him. He has this crazy idea that I’m datable.”

  “And you’re not?”

  I gritted my teeth, suddenly remembering why I was supposed to be furious with him. “No. I’m too jaded. Men keep proving to me how they’re big time jerks.”

  That earned me a wince. “Well, since you upchucked on me, I’m hoping we can call it even and declare a truce.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” I said. “I should have fessed up and apologized.”

  “No, I’m the one who needs to apologize. I’d probably be dead if it weren’t for you.” He absently folded a napkin into a small triangle. “You went out of your way to help me, and I was a complete jackass. Really, I can’t apologize enough.” He pinned me under the weight of his stare, and for a second I was certain he saw right through me, as if he could tell by one glance how I dreamed about him. “Forgive me?”

  My stomach clenched, and a voice in my head pointed out that for a jerk, his presence still made my skin tingle. I should have paid more attention in chemistry—there had to be a reasonable, logical explanation for this Aidan-induced psychosis I kept experiencing. It was those damn dreams. That was it. Mystery solved.

  A drift of cold air accompanied two deputies inside. “The police are here. They need to take my statement.”

  “The police?” Aidan kni
tted his eyebrows.

  “Yeah . . . actually, that’s kind of what I need to talk to you about.” I rose to my feet. “Are you gonna stick around for a while?”

  “Sure. I’ll wait for you at the bar.”

  I moved toward the deputies and Mike. They were in mid-conversation, and I realized with dread that one of the deputies was Judd. Something about his attitude just rubbed me wrong.

  He looked up from his notepad. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”

  I couldn’t agree more, though I kept my thoughts to myself.

  “I’m beginning to think your middle name is Trouble, Ms. Hill.” His partner and my boss both gave Judd a funny look. “Oh, we met last night on another call,” he explained. “She’s got a knack for getting caught up in other people’s drama.” He went back to his notepad, pen at the ready. “So tell us what happened this time.”

  It took everything I had to give my statement in a calm tone. Mike put his two cents in every so often, and ten minutes later the deputies left, promising to keep an eye out for the guy.

  Mike went back to his duties, and I went back to mine. I approached Aidan. His hair didn’t quite cover the white bandage hiding the gouge I knew was there. “Can I get you something?”

  Something non-alcoholic.

  “Coke, hold the Jack,” he replied.

  I got his soda and then slid the glass into his waiting hands. “So, how much do you remember about last night?”

  “Bits and pieces.” He stared into the dark, bubbly liquid, seemingly lost in thought. I wished I could read minds instead of dream about things that didn’t make sense until after they happened.

  Dammit, this conversation wasn’t going to happen if I chickened out. I gripped the counter and leaned toward him. “Aidan, a guy was in here tonight talking about what happened in that alley.” I lowered my voice. “Did you know Chloe Sanders?”

  Aidan flinched. “No. I ran into her a couple of times before she . . .” He ran a hand through his hair. “What’d the guy look like?”

  “Dark brown hair, green eyes, on the husky side. He had tattoos on his arms.”

  “Sounds like her dirtbag boyfriend.”

  “Was he the one who attacked you?”

  “Honestly, I don’t remember. I wouldn’t be surprised though.”

  “What’s his name? I’ll pass it on to Judd.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure he’ll be so happy to hear from me again.”

  “I think you should stay far away from this, Mackenzie.”

  I liked the way my name rolled off his tongue. “It’s a little late for that. He threatened me—that’s why Brad got involved. They exchanged a lot more than just words.”

  He cursed under his breath. “Let me handle this, okay?”

  I chewed on my lip and nodded. If I wanted to know the guy’s name, I could find out on my own easily enough.

  “I should get going.” He got up and shuffled his feet. “Can I borrow a pen?”

  “Sure.” Wondering what he was up to, I grabbed a lottery pencil from near the register and handed it to him. Though our fingers only connected for a fleeting moment, the warmth of his skin seared down to the tips of my toes, and they nearly curled as my thoughts ran away into forbidden territory. I’d started the day angry with him and had grown more furious as the hours passed. Now he’d defused my anger as easily as a bomb squad dismantled an explosive.

  I’m in trouble.

  He wrote something down on a napkin. “Here’s my number.” He held my gaze longer than necessary, and as our fingers brushed together again, I wondered if he felt it too. “Be careful, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, stunned that I held his number in my hand.

  “I’m gonna take off and let you finish your shift in peace.” He hesitated. “Thanks for being there last night.”

  “No problem.”

  I watched him go, and the rest of my shift went by with such ease that I questioned every minute, waiting for the next chaotic moment to thrust itself upon me. On the way home, I tossed Aidan’s words around in my mind.

  Be careful.

  What had he meant by that? Did he think I was in danger? I shivered, suddenly getting the distinct feeling that someone was watching me. I studied the empty road, the trees surrounding me with their colorful leaves, but as far as I could tell, no one was there. As I approached my apartment, I ran a hand along Six’s car in the driveway and considered waking her to talk about my conversation with Aidan.

  Tomorrow.

  Surely Six would be able to decipher man-code. Tonight my bones ached for sleep. I stumbled into my apartment, double checked the locks on the door, and fell into bed.

  And as the night morphed into dawn’s early shades of gray, I dreamed of Six’s murder.

  7. Forty-Eight Hours

  The woman screaming was me, yet it was also Six. Echoes of her death lingered in the shadows like vague memories; they haunted from every corner of the room. Fear clung to my clammy skin and ached in my throat, and every gasping breath brought the smell of dampened earth, wet leaves, and the undeniable scent of the sea. I untangled from the bedding and jumped to my feet, found yesterday’s jeans and pulled them on. My front door banged against the wall as I charged into the early morning gray.

  I skidded to a stop and beat my fists on her door. “Six! Open up!” A glance through the gap in her curtains revealed nothing but dark, empty space. I was starting to accept she wasn’t home when the newspapers under my bare feet caught my attention. I bent down and picked them up—two of them. The morning’s headline was as dismal as the sky:

  Boise Hangman linked to Sanders’ case.

  Police are investigating a possible connection between the Sanders' case and the killer believed to be responsible for a string of murders in Idaho. The Watcher’s Point Herald received an anonymous letter signed by the “Boise Hangman” in which the perpetrator claims responsibility for the murder of Chloe Sanders.

  A spokesperson for the sheriff’s department said the letter has produced new leads, and they are doing all they can to find the person responsible for Sanders’ murder. Authorities would not comment when asked about the possibility of a copycat. Anyone with information is asked to contact the sheriff’s department . . .

  The paper slid from my frozen fingers. Now was not the time for Six to go missing. I was wrong. The nightmare hadn’t meant anything. We’d laugh about this in a couple of days—right after I chewed her out for scaring the life out of me.

  I rushed into my apartment and dialed her cell, but it went straight to voicemail. After leaving a frantic message, I keyed in Mike’s number and wedged sockless feet into my sneakers as we exchanged a few words. He hadn’t seen her since Halloween. A call to Tony produced the same results. I even tried Christie, but all that got me was a barked “haven’t seen her,” followed by dead air after she hung up on me.

  Filing a report with the police seemed the next step. The sun’s rays had brightened the gray by the time I walked into the sheriff’s office. Of course, the only available deputy happened to be Judd. He looked up from the morning newspaper, and his mouth twisted into a scowl as he set the front page aside, knocking over his cardboard cup of java in the process.

  “Shit!” He pushed his chair back and used the newspaper to sop up the spill. “You again, huh? What can I do for you this time?”

  “I need to report someone missing.”

  He settled into his chair with a sigh. “Well, don’t stand there all day. Have a seat.” He nodded toward the only chair facing his desk. I sat and wrung my hands in my lap.

  “Who’s missing?” he asked.

  “Six.”

  “Six is missing?”

  I nodded. “She’s not answering her cell. I called around and no one else has heard from her either.”

  Judd sat forward and rested his elbows on the desk. I took in the abandoned soft drink cups, burger wrappers, and scattered paperwork. A teenager’s bedroom could compete with that mess. He followed my
gaze, viewing the clutter with an air of nonchalance that told me he couldn’t care less about the state of his workspace.

  “Sorry, my cleaning lady’s on vacation.” He smirked from across the desk-turned-wasteland. “So when was the last time you saw her?”

  “The night of Halloween.”

  He ran slender fingers through his wavy, brown hair. “Sorry to tell you this, but we can’t file a report until forty-eight hours has gone by—not without reasonable cause.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Judd shook his head. “It’s policy. I don’t make the rules.”

  “I don’t care about your policies. All I care about is Six.” A vivid image broke through of Six, her face pale and terrified, her wrists and ankles bound as she squirmed in the back of a moving vehicle. There was no mistaking those fiery locks, singed at the ends from the flame of a lighter. She never gave her tormentor the satisfaction of begging; she’d unleashed a litany of profanities right up until the rope tightened around her throat. Six was in trouble—the kind I couldn’t stand to think about.

  “What is your definition of ‘reasonable cause’?” I asked through gritted teeth.

  He shrugged. “Signs of foul play.” He reached for his coffee cup but then pulled his hand back with a grimace.

  “I want to talk to the sheriff.”

  “He’ll be in later this morning. The old man’s up to his ears dealing with the press since the story about the Hangman broke. You’re free to try back later.”

  “Don’t you find Six’s disappearance alarming, considering the headline this morning?” I bit my tongue before I said something I might regret, or not, depending on how one looked at it. Damn cop was acting like a buffoon.

  He grabbed a pad of paper from underneath the sodden mess. “Okay,” he said grudgingly. “Where was she last seen?”

  “As far as I know, the Pour House.”

  Judd asked a few more questions, all the while scribbling unintelligible notes. “I’ll see what I can do. Can’t be too careful, I suppose, especially with the media frenzy going on right now.” He paused long enough to set the pad down on the desk again. “She’s probably recovering somewhere from a couple days of heavy partying. Seen it happen plenty of times. She’ll turn up.”