by Irene Hannon
Yet on the heels of relief came panic. Once she gave the man this letter, there was no going back.
But what if she couldn’t find the courage to complete the last step?
A shudder quivered through her, and she pulled her sweater tighter against the chilling doubts swirling around her.
What choice did she have, though? She’d examined the options, debated the pros and cons through the long, sleepless night, and this was the best solution. The one she was certain Mihad would have chosen had he been in her place. It would send the message that needed to be sent—and protect her from Neven’s wrath.
Yes.
She could do this.
She would do this.
Pressing her lips together, she shuffled to the front door. Thank goodness the apartment was on the first floor, near the mail slots for all the units.
As soon as she heard the man approach, she twisted the knob and peeked out.
He looked over and smiled. “Afternoon, ma’am.”
She pulled the door wider, maneuvered her walker halfway out, and lifted the envelope, displaying the address she’d carefully copied from the card tucked in her book of prayers.
“You want to mail that?” He moved closer.
She didn’t understand every word, but based on his inflection, she was confident he understood her message.
“Yes.” She held out the envelope.
As he took it, she reached into her pocket, pointed to the empty upper right corner of the envelope, then extended her palm to display a selection of coins.
The man smiled again, his demeanor friendly, his eyes kind as he rooted through the change. After selecting several coins, he indicated the stamp on one of the envelopes he was delivering, pointed to her envelope, and nodded. “I’ll take care of this for you.”
English might be difficult for her, but she was certain he knew what she wanted and would send her letter on its way.
“Tank you.”
“My pleasure. Now you’d better get inside where it’s warm. You could catch pneumonia out here.” He did a shooing motion toward the door and playacted a shiver.
Such a nice man, to be concerned about her health.
If only her own grandson was as considerate.
Fighting back tears, she retreated a step. Watched him tuck the envelope into his sack. Hesitated on the threshold.
She could still take the letter back.
Be strong, Mevlida! Make Mihad proud.
Gripping the handles of the walker, she wrestled down her fear.
The man finished sliding the mail into the slots. “Have a nice day, ma’am.” With a jaunty salute, he turned and walked back to his truck. A few seconds later the red, white, and blue van pulled away from the curb and disappeared around a bend.
It was done.
Mevlida slowly closed the door against the frigid wind—but the cold remained in her heart. Never, in all her seventy-eight years, had her courage been tested in this way. Yes, she and her son and grandson had left everything they’d known behind when they’d escaped to this country—but there had been no choice. Staying in her cherished homeland had no longer been possible. As for all the loved ones she’d lost . . . that, too, had been beyond her control. And living with Neven . . . where else could she have gone, except back to a homeless shelter?
But this decision was hers. A difficult one, yes—but hers. She had taken the initiative, let her voice be heard. For once, she would not be a victim.
And now it was time for the final step.
A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. The room tilted. Her legs threatened to buckle.
No!
She would not weaken!
This was a matter of life and death.
Tightening her grip on the walker, she lifted her chin and set off down the hall to seal her fate.
Nathan tossed the newspaper on the kitchen table, grabbed a beer, and surveyed the contents of the refrigerator.
Odd.
The old woman hadn’t eaten the bowl of chili he’d left her for lunch.
Then again, she’d never been a fan of the bean-based dish.
He opened the freezer and took a quick inventory. She liked the stuffed cabbage rolls in tomato sauce. They reminded her of the sarma she’d enjoyed in the old country. Why not surprise her and heat it up for tonight? It was important to keep her off-balance, throw in enough kindness to give her hope life might get better.
As if.
He pulled out the package, removed the serving container, and threw it in the microwave. What a disgusting dish . . . but he could put up with the smell for one night. Besides, the aroma of the barbecue takeout he’d picked up on the way home would overpower it.
Taking a pull from his beer, he walked down the hall and knocked on her door. “Dinner will be ready in five minutes.”
No response.
The can crinkled beneath his fingers. She knew better than to ignore him.
It was possible she was asleep, though. She took to her bed more often these days, especially since she’d fallen and hurt her ribs. Plus, her hearing was starting to go. Soon he’d have to shout if he wanted to communicate with her.
Another reason to end their arrangement once he was finished with Christy.
He knocked harder. “Wake up in there!”
More silence.
Mashing his lips together, he twisted the knob. This is what he got for showing her some courtesy, for knocking instead of barging in. Well, she’d hear about . . .
As he pushed the door open and took in the scene, the air whooshed out of his lungs.
No!
This couldn’t be!
She wouldn’t do this to him!
But as the reality sank in, as his fingers tightened on the can and sent a geyser of beer spurting through the tab, as the consequences of her actions began to register, he fumbled for the doorframe to steady himself.
The meek old woman had abandoned him in the end, just like all the others—leaving him with a cluster bomb of trouble.
And unless he did some damage control—fast—his plans for Christy would have to be put on ice.
Perhaps for a very long time.
“I still can’t believe you talked me into a second trip out here.” Mark pulled on the same ski hat he’d worn during their previous excursion to the cliffside accident site.
Stifling a yawn, Lance did a U-turn, eased as far off the road as possible, and put on his flashers. “I didn’t exactly have to twist your arm. It was either this or the Monday morning staff meeting. You made the wise choice.” He dropped the keys into the pocket of his jacket and scanned the terrain. “Like I said on the ride down, your idea about something being pulled across the road makes sense. Eye level would be most effective.”
“And you think there would still be some evidence of that months later, as careful as this guy’s been to cover his tracks?” Mark sent him a skeptical look.
“It’s possible.” Barely.
But they didn’t need two naysayers on this reconnaissance mission.
Besides, he hadn’t been any more keen to attend a boring meeting than his colleague.
Mark didn’t comment on his optimistic response. Instead, he inspected the sides of the deserted road. “Eye level means it had to be tallish and not very heavy or it would have been too difficult to maneuver fast.”
“Right.”
“So you’re thinking our guy connected it to a wire or rope and positioned it on one side of the road, then pulled it across from the other side once the car got close.”
The more his colleague talked, the less feasible the idea sounded.
“Maybe.” He sized up the road. There was no place on the minuscule shoulder cliffside to conceal anything large, and the bluff sloped directly up from the tiny shoulder on the other.
But they were here now, and he wasn’t leaving without another look.
Turning up the collar of his coat, he gestured to the skid marks in front of them. “Given t
he narrow road and the lack of traffic, let’s assume Christy’s father was using his high beams that night. So he’s seeing three to four hundred feet ahead at best. Speed might have been forty, given the darkness and curves. That puts stopping distance at about a hundred and fifty feet, not factoring in brake lag, the time from touching to full depression, lock up, or reduced reaction speed due to age.”
Mark arched an eyebrow. “Do you know those numbers off the top of your head or did you do some homework?”
“I’d like to claim the former—but that would be a lie.”
“An honest man.”
He studied the road again. “I’m estimating the distance from the beginning of the skid marks to the point where the car went over the edge is only about a hundred feet.”
“Meaning the object appeared suddenly, sixty or seventy feet in front of the car, close to the cliff—and our guy hoped Christy’s father would fishtail out of control and go over before he could stop.”
“That’s my hypothesis.”
“So we need to take a lot closer look at the shoulder for the last eighty or so feet of skid marks.” Mark pushed open his door. “Let’s do it.”
Lance stepped out into the blustery wind and called over the roof of the car. “You want to take the cliffside?”
“Sure.” Mark pulled on a pair of gloves.
For the next quarter hour they scrutinized the ground, the bushes, the trees as they paced off the route—and with each minute that ticked by, Lance grew more pessimistic. This had been a long shot from the get-go.
Besides, even if they found some validation for their theory, it wasn’t likely to help them ID the perpetrator. At best, it could verify the man had a bigger agenda, that the fire and kidnapping were part of a larger, more diabolical plan. But what they really needed was a solid lead that would help them—
“Lance!”
He stopped and turned. Mark had gotten up close and personal with a cedar tree poking above the cliff, parting the dense boughs to examine the trunk.
Lance crossed the road. “What have you got?”
Keeping the branches spread apart, he backed off and tipped his head.
Lance leaned in closer. “I don’t see anyth . . .” A metallic glint caught his eye as Mark gave the tree a slight shake, and he frowned. Looked again. A thin band of some sort of reflective material was tied around the trunk, one loose length fluttering in the breeze. “How did you manage to spot that? And what is it?”
“The wind picked up as I was passing, and I saw the reflection.” Mark caught the loose end of the half-inch-wide shiny strip. “This was peeking out of the branches. A second earlier or later, I’d never have spotted it. It looks like VHS tape to me.”
VHS tape tied to a tree in the middle of nowhere.
This had to be relevant—but how?
Lance stuck his hands on his hips. “You have any idea how this might be related to the case?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Mark let the branches snap back into place and folded his arms. “One night when I was a kid, we were driving home late from some family event. Halfway down our street, my dad slammed on the brakes. I looked out the front window and saw what appeared to be a wire stretched across the road at windshield height. My mom screamed. I remember covering my head. The car skidded. The wire got closer. We passed it—and nothing happened.”
“Let me guess.” Lance fingered the end of the tape sticking out of the tree as he did a quick analysis. “The headlights caught the tape and illuminated it, making you think it was a wire.”
“Yep—and it scared us to death. The skid marks were on our street for months . . . and if the night had been rainy, we’d have ended up wrapped around one of the big oak trees that lined the sidewalk. Turns out a couple of teenagers thought it would be a funny practical joke.”
Lance angled back toward the road. “This placement is too perfect to be coincidental.”
“Agreed.”
“Our guy could have waited here until GPS told him Christy’s parents were getting close, laid the tape on the road, and tucked himself in by that tree.” He pointed to another dense cedar on the bluff side of the road. “All he had to do was watch for their headlights, wait for the right moment, and pull the tape taut.”
So simple—yet so deadly.
“That would do the trick.” Mark shifted sideways as another gust of wind whipped past.
“Then he just gathered up his tape and hightailed it to wherever he’d parked his car.”
“I’m surprised he left any souvenirs, though.”
“Maybe another car came along, or he thought the tape would stay hidden in the branches.”
“Possible. I would never have noticed it if the sun hadn’t hit it.”
“Well, we were due for a break. Let me get an evidence bag.”
“Hey.” Mark grabbed his arm. “Don’t hold your breath for prints. This guy isn’t sloppy—and without fingerprints or witnesses, there’s no way we can pin this on him.”
Like he didn’t know that.
“True—but is there any doubt in your mind this is related to the accident?”
“No.”
“Me, neither. And leaving it behind was a mistake. If our guy made one, he may make more. That’s my positive takeaway from this. Give me a minute.”
With that, Lance jogged toward the car—praying their man would, indeed, make another error.
Soon.
Because he was now absolutely certain Ginny’s killer had also taken the lives of Christy’s parents.
And he had a feeling the man had one final victim to cross off his list.
“So how are you holding up after Saturday?” Sarah gave a perfunctory knock on the edge of Christy’s cube wall, then took the chair beside the desk and set a Panera bag near the keyboard.
“Okay.”
Liar, liar.
Burying her sister a second time had been the hardest thing she’d ever done.
Sarah scrutinized her. “Not buying. You look like you haven’t slept in two days.”
Probably because she hadn’t.
“I’ll catch up. Listen . . .” She cocooned Sarah’s hand in hers. “Thank you again for coming. I know how busy your weekends are.”
“Never too busy to be there for a friend. But between the minister and your FBI agent, you didn’t need me.”
“Yes, I did. You’ve been the one steady person in my life through all these nightmare months. Your presence meant the world to me.”
Sarah sniffed and swiped at the corner of her eye. “Keep that up, I’m going to have to raid your tissue box. And speaking of your FBI agent—I approve. He struck me as a keeper.”
“I agree.”
“From what I observed, the feeling is mutual.” Sarah slid the bag closer to her. “In case you didn’t eat breakfast, I picked up one of those asiago bagels you like. Not the healthiest way to start the week—but comfort food has a place.”
“You’re a great friend, you know that?”
“You’d do the same for me if the situation was reversed.” She sighed and shook her head. “But we could do with a little less tragedy around this place, that’s for sure. Did you hear about Nathan?”
Christy ran the name through her mind and came up blank. “Nathan who?”
“You might not know him. He’s been on the maintenance crew less than a year, and he usually handles outside stuff. But you may have seen him filling in here and there since Dennis broke his leg. I know he was working on some carpet issues around the conference room about a week ago.”
“Oh yeah. I know who you mean.” Not much about the guy had registered beyond dark hair and muscular arms. She’d been too busy trying to absorb Lance’s news about his brother. “What happened to him?”
“Not him. His grandmother.” Sarah glanced around, leaned closer, and dropped her volume another few decibels. “She lived with him, and the scuttlebutt is he came home from work on Thursday and found her hanging in her bedroom.
She killed herself.”
Shock reverberated through Christy. “That’s terrible!”
“Yeah. Apparently she’s from some country in eastern Europe and didn’t speak much English. He took her in after she broke her hip and was left somewhat disabled. I heard she was his only relative, so I imagine they were very close. He must be devastated.”
“I wonder why she would take her life?”
Sarah shrugged. “From what I hear, her health has been deteriorating. Chronic pain, with no hope of getting better, can lead to depression. I can’t begin to imagine what Nathan is going through.”
“Yeah.” All these months, she’d been so wrapped up in her own problems she’d forgotten other people were facing personal crises too. “Is anyone taking up a collection for flowers?”
“No flowers. There’s no visitation. He had her cremated after the coroner released the body, and I think there’s a private graveside service tomorrow. But a card is circulating, and people are contributing toward a donation to the literacy council. Nathan told his boss his grandmother had always wanted to learn the language but was never able to master it.”
“I need to track the card down. I’d like to contribute.”
“You have enough going on without worrying about anyone else. You don’t even know him.”
“We may have spoken. I’ve talked to a few of the maintenance guys over the past year. Besides, that doesn’t matter. If he has no family left, it might raise his spirits to see a lot of names on that card.”
Sarah pushed the Panera bag toward her. “Moments like this remind me why we’re friends. Now eat.”
“I will. And moments like this”—she patted the bag—“remind me why we’re friends.” Her phone began to ring, and she checked caller ID. “It’s Lance.”
“I’m out of here.” Sarah rose. “Catch you later.”
As her friend disappeared out the door, Christy swiveled away from the hall, picked up the phone, and greeted him. “Thank you again for delaying your flight to Washington so you could be there Saturday—and for helping to expedite the arrangements with Memphis.”
“I wish I could have done more. No one should have to bury someone they love twice.”
