Secret Stalker

by LENA DIAZ,

  “That’s the interior of the cabin where your brother was killed.”

  “Yes, it is. Father is a bit obsessive about security. He has cameras all over the place. Imagine my surprise when I discovered he had one at the cabin. Thank goodness I was smart enough to look for it. This is the recording from that day. Oh, I have to warn you. Parts of it might be hard for you to watch, Max. And the end, Marcia, I guarantee you won’t appreciate that part. But I’m looking forward to our little movie night. I’ve been wanting to set the record straight for some time now.”

  The door opened on the screen.

  “Ah, here we go,” Deacon said. “Too bad we don’t have popcorn. Ah, well. It’s not like I planned this for tonight. When I saw Marcia out skulking around the property, I had to act fast. But I’m rather good at making the best of a bad situation. You’ll see.”

  Max clenched his fists at his sides as, on the screen, Bex entered the cabin. There was no sound. But he could see the puzzlement on her face as she looked around. And he could clearly read her lips as she apparently called out, “Max?”

  “Isn’t that sweet?” Deacon said. “She’s looking for her lover, for Max. Marcia, you’ll want to pay particularly close attention to this next part. You’ve convinced yourself that Bobby loved you, that he wasn’t using you for sex every time he went after his primary target and failed. I mean, come on, Marcia. Did you really think Bex wanted Bobby? He was a slimeball. He stalked her for months. And every time someone saved her from his clutches, he’d run to you so he could pound out his frustration inside your body. That wasn’t love, my dear. That was abuse. The man was sick.”

  Marcia stood off to the side, her face pale from both Deacon’s words and the tableau playing out on the screen.

  Max wasn’t doing much better himself. He was sick to his stomach seeing Bobby surprise Bex in the cabin, then throw her to the floor, pawing at her and forcing her to suffer his groping hands all over her body. If Bobby Caldwell had been alive today, Max would be hard-pressed not to kill him himself.

  “Turn it off,” Max ordered.

  “And miss the best part? I think not.” He winced. “Oh, that had to hurt.”

  On the screen, Bex had just smashed a wine bottle against the side of Bobby’s head. He dropped to the floor like a stone.

  Marcia keened an animallike cry between her clenched teeth.

  “Oh, good grief,” Deacon said. “Even after seeing her supposed boyfriend trying to rape another woman, she’s still upset over him getting hurt. You really need professional help, Marcia, love.”

  Max had a pretty good idea that Deacon was the one who needed professional help. All these years he’d thought Bobby was the only crazy one. Apparently the crazy gene ran in the family.

  As Bex ran out of the cabin on the TV, Max inched his way toward Deacon, very slowly so as not to draw his attention.

  Deacon stared at the screen, his eyes lit with a half-mad light. “And now, folks. We’ve finally reached the good part.”

  Max looked at the screen. A man wearing a dark jacket with a hood over his head entered the cabin and bent over Bobby. He slapped Bobby’s face several times. Bobby winced, then his eyes fluttered open.

  “Ah, there, you see?” Deacon said. “Bex didn’t kill my brother after all. That’s what I wanted you both to know. Now watch very closely.”

  It didn’t take long. The man in the cabin, with his back to the screen, was apparently arguing with Bobby. Bobby shoved him out of his way and headed for the door. The bat seemed to come out of nowhere, swinging right for the middle of Bobby’s back. His body slammed against the door and plopped down onto his back on the floor, a trickle of blood dribbling out from the corner of his mouth. The bat slammed down again, this time on Bobby’s stomach. Again and again it came down. Bobby raised his hands to protect himself and rolled over, trying to push himself up. The bat came down once more, twice, and then Bobby was still.

  Max stared in horror at the screen. Marcia had covered her mouth with her hands. And then the hooded man turned around, looked directly up at the camera, and smiled.

  The same smile Deacon Caldwell was giving Max.

  “Now you know,” he said, sounding as if they were discussing the best crops to plant next spring, his voice relaxed and upbeat.

  They were in big trouble.

  Max glanced at Marcia, then toward the French door behind her. She gave him a subtle nod, letting him know she understood.

  He took a step toward Deacon as the movie went to black-and-white snow before replaying on a loop. “Why did you keep that recording all these years? And why play it now?” He intentionally positioned himself to give Marcia the most cover, moving another step forward to hold Deacon’s attention.

  The rifle pointed straight at him. Deacon held it at hip level, both hands keeping it steady. “Not another step, Max. I just did you a favor. I saved your life out there.”

  “You did. And for that I’m grateful. But I’m not so sure you intend for me to live out the rest of this evening. Otherwise you wouldn’t have played that movie.”

  “Well, yes. There is that. I might have lied just a bit about not wanting to hurt either of you,” he conceded in a companionable voice. “It’s been so hard keeping that secret all these years when all I ever wanted to do was brag to anyone who would listen that I’d finally erased that scumbag from the Earth. He was sick. I could tell you stories for days about the things he did. But it didn’t matter. Not to our father. He knew how evil Bobby was. But he was the firstborn, the heir. So Daddy dearest did nothing, turned the other way. The only concession to Bobby’s sick tendencies was that Dad hired all those security thugs to keep an eye on him. Not that they did much good. Bobby had his hands in Daddy’s money already and he used it to grease the palms of the guys who worked for our father. Soon they were his cohorts, covering his tracks instead of stopping him. You know that better than anyone, Max. They must have beaten you up half a dozen times while you were trying to get Bobby to back off from Bex. You should be thanking me for killing him.”

  “I repeat, why save the recording?” Max asked.

  “For Bex, of course. I like Bex. She was always good to me back in school, even in middle school when I got teased and picked on so much, before I grew bigger and taller than the bullies and they became afraid of me. Before all that, Bex would take up for me, tell the bullies to leave me alone. Don’t you remember the early years of middle school when the girls were taller than us, before we sprouted up? I do. Bex saved me from a lot of beatings back in the day. And I always regretted that I couldn’t do more for her. Until Bobby. When I finally realized what he was doing, I vowed to figure out how to stop him once and for all. So I did. I saved Bex. And I cleaned up all the evidence of her having been there so your boss couldn’t prosecute.”

  Max took another step toward Deacon, then stopped when the rifle raised to chest level. He put his hands in the air and wondered if Marcia was close enough to the door yet to make a run for it. “Easy, Deacon. I’m just trying to understand here. You saved Bex by killing Bobby, but then you let everyone think she was the one who killed him. Why?”

  Deacon winced. “I hated that part. Of course, I didn’t want to go to prison. But I would have, if I had to. I saved that recording, and all of the evidence I took from the cabin, to use one day if I absolutely had to in order to keep her from being convicted. I would have sacrificed myself for her if it was necessary. You have to believe that. It’s the only reason I saved such damning evidence.”

  He didn’t know what to believe. But he played along. Why hadn’t Marcia gone outside yet?

  “I believe you,” Max lied. “You were a good friend to Bex.”

  “Yes. I was.”

  “So what happens now?”

  Deacon sighed. “Sadly, you and Marcia have to die. Neither of you will let Bobby’s m
urder go. Ever since Bex came back to town, you’ve started digging, digging, digging. That has to stop. With you and Marcia gone, and my dad dying soon from the cancer, there won’t be anyone left who cares enough to push for answers about Bobby’s death.”

  Deacon’s finger moved from the frame of the rifle to the trigger.

  Max tried to stall him a little longer, inching closer. “Wait. I don’t understand why you hired those gunmen—to grab Bex at the Piggly Wiggly? Or to scare her?”

  Deacon shook his head. “Don’t ask me. That was all dear old Dad’s doing. Say a quick prayer, Max. Renounce your sins. Because you’re about to meet your maker.”

  “What about the blood?” Max rushed to ask him, holding his hands in the air. “If killing me is supposed to make the investigation into Bobby’s death go away, won’t my blood all over your living room just start a new investigation and put you right back in the same situation?”

  “Well, I do plan on cleaning up the mess,” Deacon reasoned.

  “You can’t clean up blood completely, not good enough so that a CSI guy can’t find traces of it. You need to kill me outside, in the rain.”

  Deacon moved his finger back to the frame of the gun. “I know you’re just stalling for time. But you do have a point. I wasn’t too worried about blood when Bobby died, since it was all his anyway. But you’re right. Explaining your DNA in my home might prove to be a problem. Move.” He motioned with the rifle toward the front door.

  The French door behind Max finally swung open, slamming back against the wall in a burst of wind and rain.

  Deacon’s eyes widened and he stepped to the right, swinging the rifle toward the door.

  Max lunged toward him, praying he was close enough to reach him as Deacon swung the rifle back toward him.

  Bam!

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bex froze, her sneakers squishing in the mud just outside the cabin that had haunted her nightmares for over a decade. She raised the butcher knife that she’d grabbed from Max’s kitchen and turned in a full circle. Was that a gunshot she’d heard? Or had the lightning hit one of the trees close by?

  Rain pelted her from above, no longer blowing in stinging sheets. The storm was easing, but she was still soaked and cringing every time lightning flashed across the sky. She started forward again, using the flashlight she’d discovered in a kitchen drawer. Too bad Max hadn’t had a gun in the kitchen drawer, too. She could have searched his house for one. But she’d been too worried the rain would obliterate his trail and she wouldn’t be able to find him if she waited any longer.

  Twenty minutes later, her pathetic tracking skills that she’d learned as a Girl Scout too many years ago to count had brought her to this cabin. She shined the flashlight all around, hoping to see some sign of Max. She’d called his name over and over when she’d first started looking for him. But her voice was so hoarse now she didn’t think she could scream if her life depended on it.

  After testing the cabin’s doorknob and finding it unlocked, she pushed it open, shining the light inside and holding her knife at the ready. But the one-room structure was obviously empty, and drenched and dirty from rain pelting through a hole in the roof. She whirled around and headed back to where she’d last seen a shoe print in the mud. Rain had already filled the print and was distorting its edges. She ran the light along the ground, weaving back and forth, searching for the next print. Nothing. Rain was running along the ground like a stream past the cabin, obliterating everything in its path.

  She ran behind the cabin, shining her light all around. And then she saw it—another shoe print, heading toward the woods. Was it Max’s? It seemed large enough to be but it was hard to tell. Not seeing any other prints nearby, and completely out of options, she started toward the trees.

  * * *

  MAX SLAMMED HIS FIST against Deacon’s jaw. Deacon grunted in pain and rolled to the side. Max scrambled across the hardwood floor, reaching for the rifle that he’d knocked out of Deacon’s hand earlier. Fingers circled around his ankle and yanked him backward.

  He kicked his legs, slamming his boot into the side of Deacon’s shoulder. Deacon let out a howl of pain and immediately let him go.

  Max pushed himself up on his hands and knees and lunged for the rifle. He grabbed it, twisting around and bringing it up toward Deacon.

  Except that Deacon was gone.

  The sound of boots clomping across the porch outside the open French door had Max shoving to his feet and racing for the opening.

  * * *

  BEX HAD LOST the trail twenty feet from the cabin. But then she’d spotted a new trail, a recent trail. The pounding rain had distorted the prints so badly she could barely tell they were made by a human. But since any humans out in this storm had to either be Max or someone who could hopefully lead her to Max, she took off in pursuit. Jogging, head down, flashlight pointed at the ground so she wouldn’t miss any of the rapidly disappearing prints, she hurried up an incline, faster and faster.

  Wait. Incline? Weren’t there cliffs around this area? She lifted her head and sucked in a breath at the black maw opening just ahead. She scrambled to stop her forward momentum, dropping to her knees in the mud at the cliff’s edge. The knife flew out of her hands and disappeared over the side. Her feet slid in the muck, her momentum continuing to carry her toward the drop-off.

  “Bex!”

  She glanced over her shoulder to see Max running toward her. Her heart soared with relief that he was okay even as it swelled with panic as she slid toward the edge.

  “Max!” She clawed desperately at the squishy ground.

  He dived like a baseball player trying to steal first base, his hands outstretched. Her fingertips brushed against his, and then she fell into open air.

  * * *

  “BEX, NO!” MAX yelled her name, horrified, as her frightened, pale face disappeared over the cliff. He shoved to his knees, trying to find purchase in the slick mud. Digging his fingers around some tree roots embedded in the mire, he pulled himself just over the drop-off and looked down. “Bex? Bex?”

  “I’m here.”

  Her voice sounded impossibly hoarse, but it was definitely her. He inched another half foot forward, and then he saw her, clinging to the side of the hill, the fingers of her left hand wrapped around tree roots protruding from the slick dirt.

  “Hang on,” he called down. “Don’t let go.”

  “I’m slipping.”

  “Try to find a better handhold. There are roots all over the place. You might have to dig.”

  She punched at the dirt with her right hand. “I’ve got another root!”

  “Good. Hold on. I’m coming to get you.” How, he had no idea. But going over the edge wasn’t an option. He’d pull the whole slick hillside down on top of both of them. He needed to go back down the hill and come up from beneath her, below the cliff face.

  He half slid, half ran down the hill to circle around beneath the cliff. A shadow moved off to his right. He jerked his head around just as Deacon Caldwell slammed into him from the cover of trees.

  * * *

  BEX’S LEFT FOOT slid off her foothold and cartwheeled her sideways. She let out a squeal of alarm and scrabbled for a new foothold. The root she was holding in her right hand started to move. It was pulling loose. Where was Max?

  A muffled grunt was her answer. The sound of cursing, a shout. Max was in trouble. Whoever was after him must have found him again. What in the world was happening?

  “Bexley, look up.”

  She did, and was shocked to see Marcia Knolls’s face pale in the moonlight, looking over the edge at her. Bex was even more surprised to see a rope being lowered. The rope stopped at her waist. All she had to do was grab it. In theory. But this was Marcia, the same woman who’d hated Bex all her life. The same woman who’d shot a
bullet through her car window just a few days ago.

  “Grab it,” Marcia yelled. “What are you, stupid? You’re going to fall.”

  The root suddenly pulled free, and Bex automatically grabbed for the rope. To her relief, it held. She looked up at Marcia, who had both hands wrapped around the rope above.

  “It’s tied around my waist,” she said. “I’m a lot bigger than you, and stronger. But you’re still going to have to help. Try to climb up while I pull.”

  Bex slammed the toe of her sneaker against the wall of dirt until she made a deep enough gap to get a toehold. She tried to think of it like climbing a rock wall for exercise, only without the steep drop to almost-certain death below. Inch by inch, working as a team, she and Marcia managed to pull her all the way to the edge.

  But Marcia didn’t move to help her climb up.

  “Marcia,” Bex gasped. “Move back. I can’t climb up with you right in front of me.”

  A slow, feral smile curved Marcia’s lips. “I know. And the end of the rope isn’t tied around my waist, either. All that’s keeping you from falling to your death are two loops of rope around my wrist. Kind of makes you wish you were nicer to me in high school, doesn’t it? Or that you’d kept your hands off my freaking boyfriend.”

  Bex stared at her in horror, seeing her own death mirrored in the other woman’s black eyes.

  * * *

  MAX GRAPPLED IN the mud with Deacon, both of them fighting for control of the rifle. Sirens sounded in the distance, drawing ever closer.

  Deacon’s mouth contorted with rage. “Damn my father. He must have heard the gunshot and called the cops.”

  “Just let the gun go,” Max gasped, straining against the man who outweighed him by a good thirty pounds, most of it muscle. “No one else has to get hurt.” He wrenched one hand free and slammed it under Deacon’s jaw.

  Deacon fell back against the ground, cursing. Both men lost their grip on the gun. It went flying over their heads, landing somewhere near the tree line. Deacon got to his feet first, shoving himself toward the woods. Max punched him in the middle of his spine. A bloodcurdling scream filled the air and Deacon flipped onto his back, arching off the ground and whimpering like a dog that had been kicked in the ribs.