by Vicki Hinze
Gunfire blasted the silence.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Three shots in rapid succession fired from inside the cottage!
Startled, Karen grabbed the ball bat, then dropped to a crouch in the deep shadows.
Inside, a man cursed, his muffled voice carried through the door to Karen. Her heart raced. She held the bat in a death grip, poised to strike.
With little warning, a man dressed head-to-toe in black and wearing a ski mask burst through the door in a near run.
Karen swung hard, caught him across the back.
He staggered, glanced back, then ran full out away from the cottage. The dark night swallowed him.
Karen stood scanning the woods, her knees locked to keep them from buckling, her blood pounding in her ears. The crunching sounds of someone approaching from the trees carried to her. He was coming back! He had a gun!
Hide, Karen. Hide!
Her feet didn’t want to move. She forced them, dropping again into the deep shadows. God, help me. Please, help me!
“Karen!” Ben rushed toward the patio. “Karen, where are you?”
It was Ben. Ben. She dropped the bat and ran toward him, slamming against his chest, holding on to him for dear life. “He—he left.”
Mark arrived, a menacing black gun in his hand. “How many of them?”
She burrowed against Ben, hugged him hard, shaking like a leaf. “One. He was inside. I-I hit him with the bat.”
Ben closed his arms around her. “You weren’t injured?”
“No.” She spoke into his chest, not yet ready to give up the safety she felt in his arms. “He shot three times inside the cottage. I don’t know at what.”
“Which way did he go?”
She pointed to the side of the cottage, at the greenbelt between the cottage and the street.
Mark talked on a mike and ordered his men to search the grounds. “I’ll check the cottage, Ben,” he said, then went inside.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Ben rubbed little circles on her back.
“I’m scared.” Her voice cracked. “I’m really scared.”
He hooked her chin with his thumb and tilted her face up to look into her eyes. “Me too. But we’ll get through this, okay?”
“Okay.”
Mark came out. “All clear.” He listened to something being transmitted, then added, “Fresh prints where the fence was cut.”
They’d come back. “So much for my abductors not wanting to kill me.”
“It’s too soon to tell who it was, Karen.” Ben nudged her to move. “Let’s get inside. We’re easy targets out here.”
She didn’t want to let go of him. Had to make herself release him. Snagging a steadying breath, she walked into the cottage, feeling violated down to the marrow of her bones. This was to be her haven. Her safe place.
Instead, it warned her that there was no safe place.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
The familiar feeling settled over her like a well-worn coat. She shivered with resentment, despising the sensation with authority and conviction.
“Stay here while I check the damage.” Ben left her at the kitchen bar and walked through the cottage.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t think.
Long minutes later, Ben returned, frowning. “He came in through the bedroom window. Popped the lock.”
“What did he shoot?”
“The bed.” His frown deepened and grim lines set alongside his mouth. “Obviously he thought you’d be in it, sleeping.”
Considering it was nearly one o’clock in the morning, that was a logical expectation. “So he wasn’t in there watching me when I came inside?”
“If he had been, he would have known where you were. He clearly didn’t, so I’d say no.”
That made her feel a lot better. “He must have come in after I went out onto the patio.”
“That’s where you were when he fired the shots?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’d agree.” Ben leaned a hip against the kitchen counter. “But he knew where the bedroom was, and that says he was watching closer than he should have been.” His jaw clamped shut. “We’ll fix that first thing in the morning.”
“I’m so sorry I’ve brought you all this trouble. I wish I could take it back.” She swallowed a hard lump in her throat and lowered her gaze to the glossy, black flat-top stove. His partial reflection shone in it. “You’ve had so much sorrow, and now I’m bringing it all back to you and adding more.”
“Karen, no.” Ben stepped toward her, gently clasped her upper arms. “This isn’t your fault. You didn’t do any of it.”
“But I might have done something to provoke it.” She risked a glance up, praying she wouldn’t see condemnation in his eyes. “I might have done something horrible, Ben.”
“Listen to me.” His expression softened. “No one has been harder on you than me. You can’t dispute it.” He paused, but she didn’t know what to say, so she remained silent, and he continued. “I was wrong about you. I nailed you as a scam artist after money. But now I know that’s not you or your way of living your life.”
“How do you know?”
He gave her a little smile. “In many ways. In your concern for causing the crisis center trouble. Crisis centers are breeding grounds for trouble. It’s why they exist.” He lifted a hand to halt her response. “I know because the more I talk with you, the more I see a gentle woman with great courage.” Ben stepped back. “More than all of that, though, I know because I’ve watched you pray. Not when you thought I was looking, but when you were unaware.”
What was he talking about? Had he been watching her in the wicker rocker? “When?”
“During our computer interview. You prayed half a dozen times during that discussion.”
She stiffened. “How did you know that?”
He chuckled. “I can’t believe you don’t realize you do it.”
“Do what?”
“When you silently pray, your gaze loses focus, like you’re looking off into the distance, and you look upward and left. Every time.”
“I do?”
“You do.” His tone proved he found that endearing.
She loved knowing that and hated knowing she loved that. She was in no position to be attracted to any man, but especially not this one.
“And that tells me more than everything else combined that you’re not under attack because you’ve done something terrible.”
“Then why else would two sets of men be after me?”
The amusement left his eyes and his posture stiffened. “I don’t know. Could be any of a thousand reasons. We’ll know more when your memory returns.”
That sent a chill down her spine. “Ben, Dr. Harper said that could be a month or maybe longer. I can’t wait. Not when they’re attacking me every time I turn around—and not when everyone around me is in danger.” What she needed was a place where she could just disappear long enough to recover.
I am with you. None against you will prosper.
God’s voice sounded so clearly in her mind. She couldn’t leave without this being resolved. She couldn’t disappear; she had to stay and get to the truth.
A flood of warmth and surety washed over her. Resigned if not elated, she rubbed her neck. “I know you said I was welcome here, but if you’ve changed your mind, I—”
“Absolutely not. The right response isn’t to leave, Karen. The right response is to make you safer and find out who’s trying to harm you.”
The tears she’d battled all day blurred her vision. “Thank you, Ben.”
Mark Taylor came into the kitchen through the patio door, carrying a clear plastic bag. Inside it was a white envelope marred by writing and a black tire tread print. “He avoided our scanners. We’ve combed the property, and he’s gone. I’ve put in a call to Jeff.”
So he was still out there. Karen’s knees folded, and she dropped onto a stool at the bar. “Who is Jeff?”
“Detective Meyers,” Ben said. “You spoke with him at the center.”
Mark looked at Karen. “Was this guy one of the carjackers?”
“He wore a mask, so I can’t be positive, but I don’t think so.”
“Why?” Ben asked.
“One abductor was a lot bigger than this man. The other was heavier.”
Mark pulled a pen and notepad out of his pocket, then poised the pen above the paper and looked back at her. “So you’d describe him as … ”
“About five eight or five nine and thin. When I hit him with the bat, I probably cracked his ribs.”
“I’ll alert the hospitals.” He made a notation. “What about his eyes?”
“Too dark and he wore a mask.” She shook her head. “I can’t say.”
“Anything else?”
“He was dressed in all black. And his shoes were good quality.” She paused as if that struck her as odd. “I’m not sure how I know that, but … ” Her voice trailed and she ended with a shrug.
Mark turned to Ben. “One of our guys found this in the driveway.” Mark passed him the bag containing an envelope.
Ben took it and read what was written on it. “Richard Massey.” He glanced from Mark to Karen. “Know him?”
“Never heard of him.” Mark shrugged.
Karen shook her head. “No, not ringing any bells.”
“The handwriting looks familiar,” Ben said.
A memory from Ben’s living room, the quick meeting with Gregory Chessman, flashed through Karen’s mind. “Chessman. His envelope looked like that one. He could have dropped this one on the driveway.”
“Did the camera pick up anything?” Ben asked.
“Chessman going to his car, yes, but nothing that shows the envelope.”
“What’s inside it?” Ben asked Mark.
“Nothing.” Suspicion filled Mark’s eyes and stayed put. “It’s empty.”
Karen tensed. The muscles in her abdomen twisted and her nerves sizzled. Why did Gregory Chessman make her a nervous wreck? Every inch of her skin crawled.
Ben passed the envelope back to Mark. “Run a check on this Massey guy. Let’s see what he’s about.”
Surprise rippled through Karen. “You’re not going to call and ask Chessman if the envelope is his?”
“No.” Ben didn’t elaborate.
Karen pushed him. “Is there a specific reason why not?”
“There are two. One, your instinctive reaction to him earlier—and now you’re in a cold sweat. And, two, the tread mark is on top of the writing, which means he dropped it and ran over it. I would check the envelopes to see if they match, but it’s just for confirmation. It belongs to him. The one he gave me had the same clipped corner emblem as this one.”
“That’s significant?” Her brows lifted.
“A lot of high-level executives use one. It’s an expensive, personal watermark used to verify that a postmarked envelope mailed to someone is actually the one the executive mailed and not a substitution or a forgery.”
Mark frowned. “Now why would a philanthropist need to worry about things like verification and forgery?”
Ben swiveled a look at Mark. “Those are very good questions. Ones we need to answer.”
Tension among them ratcheted up, nearly crackled, and yet Karen’s uneasiness on one level toned down. Ben believed her.
“Actually,” he said, “I think I was too hasty. An innocent man has nothing to hide.”
Did that mean he didn’t believe her, then? Karen watched, waiting for a sign.
Ben pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
Karen gestured to Mark, silently asking what Ben was doing.
“Calling Chessman,” Mark told her.
Was that a good or a bad thing? She unabashedly listened to find out.
“Gregory, this is Ben.” He paused. “I found an envelope in the driveway and wondered if you’d dropped it.” Another pause. “Yeah, sorry to wake you. I forgot to check the time before I called.” He rolled his gaze heavenward. “We had a little incident out at Three Gables.”
Ben glanced over at Karen, and something shifted in his eyes, turned hard. “No, everyone’s fine. It wasn’t anything personal. Just a crisis center patron.”
That hurt. It shouldn’t; it was true. But it did. And if that didn’t prove she needed to check her emotions on this absurd attraction, nothing would.
Ben ended the call and closed his phone. “Chessman said he knew nothing about the envelope and he’s never heard of Richard Massey.” Ben let his gaze slide from Mark to Karen and sobered even further. “I never asked him about Massey.”
He hadn’t, and no doubt Chessman still being half-asleep had been the catalyst for that slip.
Karen gasped. “He lied.”
Monday, October 12
“Harry, wake up.” Edward roughly shook the sleeping man’s shoulder. The room stank of stale smoke and beer. An open can sat on a bedside table full of water rings.
Edward couldn’t wait to get out of Harry’s dump of a trailer. The man took no pride in his home. Weeds were knee high in the yard, and trash littered what should have been the front lawn. His neighbors had every right to hate him. Their lawns were trimmed and neat, and he’d seen baskets of flowers hanging from more than one front porch.
Edward grabbed the nonrousing slob’s shoulder again and shook him even harder. “Get up, you disgrace to the human race.”
Harry cranked open an eye. “What is wrong with you, man? It’s barely daylight.”
“It’s after six o’clock. Clear your head.” Edward backed up to the wall, not touching anything. An inch of dust covered every surface. How could anyone live in such filth? “We’ve got work to do.”
“What’s going on?” Harry tossed back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed, then planted his feet on the floor. “You look scared.”
“I am scared. I just watched Johnson attempt the hit. He blew it.”
Harry’s eyes stretched wide. “You saw it?”
“From a distance.” He still couldn’t believe what he’d seen through his night-vision gear. “The woman clubbed him with a bat.”
Harry laughed. “Man, I hope she got him good.”
“You’re missing the point, Harry. There’s nothing funny about this.”
“Sorry. Johnson getting whacked is very funny to me.” Still, he sobered. “So she’s still alive and she knows we didn’t make the attempt. No one is gonna mistake Johnson for you or me. That’s what we wanted.” Harry ruffled a hand through his sleep-tossed hair. “So what’s the problem, man?”
Edward shoved a hand into his pocket and paced the short distance to the door. “The problem is Brandt knows about Massey.” Edward’s wiry tension blanketed the room, but he resisted the urge to share the information he’d intercepted on Massey’s wiretap about NINA. No way could Harry handle that. It left Edward reeling. The last thing they needed were those cutthroats coming after them.
“How did he find out?”
“I saw an envelope on Brandt’s driveway with Massey’s name on it. Brandt’s got it, and you know he’s going to check him out.”
Now Harry looked worried too. “Not if Johnson gets to him first. He’ll cut the lines to him and Chessman. Massey’s history.” Harry’s eyes narrowed. “But if Brandt gets to Massey first, he could find out about you setting him up.”
“It gets worse.”
“Don’t it always?” Harry pulled on a pair of jeans, then slung on the same shirt he’d worn the day before and began buttoning it. “Chessman will figure we fronted for Brandt. That’ll put us back at the top of his priority list.”
“Harry,” Edward said from between clenched teeth, “sometimes you make me want to knock some sense into you.”
Harry glared at him. “Go for it, man.”
Edward considered it, but Harry was twice his size and one punch would likely kill Edward. “Would you just think a little bit? That’s all I ask.”
Harry sniffed, still ticked. He shoved a package of cigarettes into his pocket, scooped up his change and dumped it into his front pocket, then stretched his arm and crammed in his wallet. “Massey will be dead by noon.”
“Unless we intercede, yes, he will.”
“Is there anybody we don’t have to help?” Harry groused and scratched his head. “Don’t say it, I know. Needle or bullet.”
Edward was content to leave it there.
Harry squinted over at him. “So are we going to intercede?”
Ah, good. He’d gotten the point. Edward lifted his chin, jutted his jaw. “We’re going to do what’s in our best interests.”
13
Why don’t you take a nap on the sofa while I clear up a few things and run a check on Richard Massey?” Ben sipped coffee from a steaming mug.
Enjoying the deep, rich aroma, Karen set her mug in the stainless sink. “I can go back to the cottage.”
“I’d prefer you stay here. For safety. Mark has some work to do before you return to the cottage.”
“All right.” Something in the way he leaned away made her wonder. Safety for her? Or to keep his mind at ease? Maybe it was a bit of both, and she had to admit, she’d rest easier with someone around.
Nora, Ben’s housekeeper, rushed in through the back door, stomping her feet on the rug. In her late sixties, round, and as warm and welcoming as a doting grandmother, she gave Karen a smile, then frowned at Ben. “I hear it’s been a busy morn,” she said, her Scottish brogue pronounced. She scanned Karen from head to toe and must have been satisfied with her findings because she turned to Ben. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Stop worrying, Nora.” Ben clasped Nora’s shoulder. “We’re fine.”
“Some dimwit trespassing and shooting holes in my freshly made cottage bed is far from fine, Benjamin.” She ducked into the butler’s pantry and returned without her purse, tying a starched white apron around her ample middle. “That was a Stearns & Foster mattress, you know—and six hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.” She looked at Karen with fire in her eyes. “Mark says you landed a lick on the viper. I hope it was a good one, dearie.”
