by Vicki Hinze
Uninterested in pursuing further talk about the mayor and his eye candy, Gregory asked, “Why are you looking for me?”
“Our recruiter was shot to death in his office this morning.”
A shudder rippled through Gregory. “Do we know why?”
“Not yet, sir. Nor do we know who is responsible.”
“Well, I suggest you find out quickly.” Gregory checked his watch—2:20. “The sooner, the better.”
“I’m working on it, sir.”
“Did you at least get his feedback on that voiceprint of Brandt’s?” “No sir, I’m afraid not.”
Truth or lie? For now, only Paul knew. “Unfortunate.”
If true, then Massey had died before Paul could get the information. Maybe a coincidence, but with his secret partner in New Orleans, who knew? Coincidence didn’t often coincide with murder.
Gregory straightened his tie. John Green had been a good mayor and the perfect secret partner, but if he’d killed Massey, he better have a good reason for not first discussing it.
Otherwise, he’d soon be joining the recruit.
Yet John making the hit wasn’t logical. He had no reason to go after Massey. He didn’t know Paul had hired the man, and Paul didn’t know Gregory knew Massey’s identity. At least, to Gregory’s knowledge, that was the case.
But what if John did know about Massey?
A chill swept through him. He could know. Paul had tested Gregory; he had lied to him. Had that been about Massey? Was Paul doubling down on Gregory, playing both sides of the fence with John Green to cover his own assets?
Possible. Knowing Paul, probable. He was fiercely loyal, but his first loyalty was, of course, to himself. So if he believed it best served his interests, he could have told John anything.
Yet it was also possible that something else had misfired or hadn’t connected as anticipated. He looked at Paul. “What do you think happened?”
“Our recruit put the subject into the Jag to signal the gang to hit her. Someone interrupted, and the gang scattered. He could’ve stiffed them on payment, and they took exception to it.”
Gregory waved to a couple walking inside. “Or Edward took him out.”
Paul’s eyes darted around, as if calculating. “High rate of probability on that, sir. If he set up Brandt as a hireling to misdirect us and he interrupted the gang hit, then he’d want to eliminate that connection and any evidence.”
Edward. Gregory grimaced. The voiceprint wasn’t necessary after all. “It’s time for a priority shift.”
14
Karen.” Mark walked into Ben’s kitchen.
The doom-and-gloom expression he wore had Karen fighting panic. “Something else is wrong, isn’t it?” A glance across the table to Ben didn’t reassure her.
Ben put down his fork. “I’m afraid so.” He pivoted his gaze to Mark. “Did you talk to Massey?”
Mark looked as if he’d rather be anywhere than standing in Ben’s kitchen facing the two of them, sharing a late lunch. “I tried, but no. Karen, I’m so sorry to have to say this, but Richard Massey is dead.”
The force of his words knocked her back in her chair. Her only tie to her past—gone. She cleared her throat, summoned her voice. “What happened to him?”
“He was shot this morning,” Mark said. “Somewhere around eleven o’clock.”
Nora silently poured Mark a glass of iced tea, set it on the table, then with a hand to his shoulder nudged Mark to take a seat beside Ben. She gave Karen’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Be strong, girl. God’s in control.”
Nora went back and fixed Mark a plate, returned to the table with it, then went back, scrubbed the bar, and motioned for Karen to eat.
Mark hadn’t taken a bite and Ben wasn’t eating either. Doubting she could swallow, Karen picked up her fork. “Do they know who shot him?”
“No suspects.” Mark lifted his fork and filled it with sweet corn. “At least, not yet.”
Ben reached over and clasped Karen’s hand, his warm fingers covering hers like a protective blanket. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too. The problem is, what do we do now?”
Mark set down his chilled glass, swallowed. “I got through to his receptionist, Emily, and faxed her your photo. She didn’t recognize you, but she’d been out on maternity leave and just returned this morning.”
“She picked a bad day to return to work.” Karen chewed and swallowed a bite of the best meatloaf she’d ever tasted. “Nora, I love this meatloaf.”
“Plenty more over here.”
Mark reached for the shaker.
“Don’t you dare be adding salt to my food, Mark Taylor. It’s got plenty.”
He pulled back his hand and sighed. “Emily said she’d talk to the temp who’s been filling in for her and look through their files. I checked with the police again. Still no reports showing up on you being missing. We’re pretty much stuck on that end until we hear what Emily uncovers.”
Ben polished off the last bite of meatloaf. “Nora, is that fresh apple pie?”
“It is. But don’t get your mind set on it. It’s for the ingathering at church tonight.”
“Shoot,” Mark grumbled under his breath. “Nora makes good apple pie.”
“And everything else,” Ben added. “Did you take care of upgrading the security at the cottage?” he asked Mark.
“It was finished about three—a good hour ago. No one can walk within fifty feet of it without being monitored at the security shack. And if they drop from a helicopter onto the roof, we’ve still got them.”
“Good.” Ben looked at Karen. “You had a fear of being in Seagrove Village. All things considered, it’s a compelling one.”
Where was he going with this? Karen’s throat felt dry, but she shook too badly to trust herself to pick up her glass and take a drink. She’d end up wearing half her tea. “I still fear it. I just wish I knew why. I’ve tried to remember, Ben. Really, I have.”
“Harvey and Lisa said you shouldn’t do that,” he told her, his concern evident.
“The center’s been bombed, everyone there’s at risk, all that’s happened here, and now my one link to my life, this Richard Massey, is dead. I can’t just sit here and do nothing until they find a way to kill me—and maybe hurt you and Mark and Nora in the process. I’ve got to try to remember.” She put down her fork. “Actually, I should leave so you’re not in jeopardy.”
“Your leaving won’t help.” Mark grabbed another biscuit from the basket at the center of the table. “It’s clear that Ben’s as involved in this as you are. If you did leave, they’d still be after him.” He broke the biscuit and slathered it with butter. “It won’t help, but it could hurt.”
“Mark’s right,” Nora added her two cents. “All this is about you and Susan, I’m thinking.” She snatched the butter off the table and stared down her nose at Mark. “I can feel your arteries hardening from across the room. Moderation, my boy.”
Ben hid a snicker behind his hand. “I agree with Nora.”
Karen couldn’t resist. “About Mark’s arteries, or this being about me and Susan?”
“Both,” he said. “There are too many connections for it to be anything else.”
Shame flooded her. “I’m so sorry, Ben.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I just … am.”
“Mark, you stay on Massey’s receptionist.” Ben stood. “Karen, let’s take a ride.”
She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Where are we going?”
“Something in this village frightens you. Maybe if we ride around, you’ll see something that spurs a memory.”
She brightened. “That’s a great idea.” Feeling better at doing something, anything, she stood and gathered their dishes, then moved toward the sink.
“You go on.” Nora intercepted her and snagged their plates. “I’ll take care of this.”
“Thank you, Nora.” Looking into the older woman’s eyes, Karen let her know she was gr
ateful for this kindness and more.
“My privilege.” She gave her a wink. “You be strong. Something will be coming to you. I believe it.”
Her certainty seeped into Karen. “It could. It really could.”
“Will.” Nora nodded. “Have faith, girl.”
Karen smiled. “Right. You’re right.” She took in a breath and squared her shoulders. God willing. “Will.”
A gloomy sunset threatened.
For the last two hours, Ben and Karen had driven through most of the sleepy seaside village. Would anything ever strike her as familiar?
It won’t happen. You’re not going to find anything.
I will, Karen countered. Leave me, doubt. I don’t believe you. Sooner or later, I will.
Fifteen minutes later, doubt again crept in.
And again she fought it.
“You okay?” Ben hooked his little finger on the turn signal. “You look a little frazzled.”
Karen exaggerated a sigh. “Just what I needed to complement my bruises and bandages and complete my ensemble, eh?”
Ben laughed.
The sound warmed her through to her bones. It was a pleasant laugh, not mocking but genuine. She loved the tone of it, but even more she loved the easiness she felt on hearing it. Ben’s laughter helped her fight the demons trying to make her doubt. They were an insidious bunch, subtly chipping away at a person until suddenly one awakened and found faith gone. And it shocked because one had no idea what had happened to it.
That wasn’t going to happen to her. God stands with me. No one against me can prosper.
“I was getting a little discouraged,” she told Ben. “But if you can still laugh—even if it’s at me—then so can I.” She smiled a little wider, and this time, the cracked skin at the corner of her mouth didn’t hurt. She was healing—inside and out.
Ben looked contrite. “I didn’t mean anything by that. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings, because I certainly didn’t intend—”
“No, of course not.” She covered his hand on the gearshift with hers. “I loved hearing you laugh. It reminded me that things are never as dire as we see them.”
“Oh.”
Definitely at a loss. She giggled. “Look, what’s happening is horrible. That I don’t know why it’s happening makes it worse. And that it’s impacted so many others, well, that’s just awful.”
“Karen, we’ve talked about this. It’s—”
“Wait.” She held up a staying hand. “Let me finish.”
He waited.
“But if you can go through all this not knowing who I am or if I deserve all that’s happening, then I can get through it too.” She swept her hair back from her face. “Whatever comes isn’t too big for God, or for you, so it’s not too big for me to deal with either.”
He stopped at a red light and looked over at her with longing in his eyes. “I want what you’ve got.”
What was he talking about? Curiosity got the better of her. “What do I have?”
“Faith.” The light turned green and he drove on.
“It’s not being withheld from you.”
“It died with Susan and Christopher.”
“Actually, it didn’t, Ben. You let go of it.”
Silently, he crossed the main highway that ran along the water and missed a turn to double back. Taking the next left, he drove through a little neighborhood of small beach houses.
He was going to ignore her. Feeling a nudge, she pushed. “If you don’t want faith, that’s one thing. God gave us free will. We get to choose. But—and you’ve learned this the hard way—that’s a lonely road.”
“I’d agree with you on that.”
“So if you want faith back, change your choice. It’s that simple.”
“And that complex. I don’t believe anymore. That’s what eats me alive. When I did believe, I knew this was just the tip of the iceberg—life, I mean. Eternity was so much bigger. I miss the serenity in knowing that.”
The sun sank and she flipped up her sun visor, no longer needing it. “That, too, is a choice.”
“Yes.” He turned right and followed the curvy road along the shore. “But it’s the only one I can make and keep my integrity.”
“You’re right.”
“What?” His voice elevated, revealing his surprise.
“If you don’t believe it and declare it, you’re just harming yourself. Feeling you have to forfeit your integrity to have faith, well, who can say that’s the right thing to do?” She grunted. “It’s just not.”
He slid her a sidelong look. “Why do I feel a ‘but’ coming on?”
“Because you know that faith in what’s seen requires nothing. Faith in the absence of view, that’s worthy of God.” She sighed. “The problem isn’t that God ran out on you, Ben. You walked out on Him. And it isn’t faith in Him you’ve lost, or you wouldn’t miss it and want it back. It’s faith in you.”
Anger flushed his cheeks.
Not wanting to see it, she looked out the window and saw a little shack of a beach house. Her skin prickled and warmth flowed through her whole body. “Stop!”
“What?” Ben hit the brakes.
She opened the door, got out, and then crossed the street. The low picket fence had peeling paint now, but in her mind it flashed sparkly white. Weed-ridden flower beds with dead blooms lined the brick walkway, but she saw bountiful marigolds and hanging baskets on the tiny porch’s eaves.
A lone rocker sat empty and silent beside the front door. In her mind it wasn’t empty. An elderly woman wearing a paint-smeared smock rocked and shelled peas into a large hand-thrown pottery bowl. The rocker. She’d sat in that rocker—as a girl, as a teen, as a woman!
Gasping, she rushed through the gate and knocked on the door.
No answer.
She knocked again. Harder. “Hello. Is anyone here?”
Ben came up behind her. “Karen, what is it?”
Sparing him a glance, she knocked again, banging on the door. “I’ve been here—often.” Her excitement bubbled over into her voice. “Ben, I spent a lot of summers here. I remember this house!”
Halfway down the block, Edward watched the woman bang on the beach house door from the front seat of his new Impala. The Jag was now buried for all time in a marsh a long way from Seagrove Village and even farther from New Orleans.
It would never be found.
“Do you think she remembers?” Harry sounded worried.
“No. If she did, she wouldn’t be knocking.”
“Guess not.” Harry parked an elbow on the center console. “Did you lead her here?”
“No, I didn’t.” Edward checked through the binoculars. “She looks pretty excited.” Had Chessman led her here? NINA operatives tipped her off?
“Maybe when she saw the place, she remembered on her own.”
“Maybe.” Harry needed to shut up so he could think. Chessman wouldn’t do anything to trigger his subject’s memory. Her recall was the last thing he wanted. She could put him in jail. Johnson wouldn’t do anything either, not with those teenagers able to identify him. Besides, if Chessman went down, they’d all go down, including Johnson. No way would he risk that.
“Chessman’s secret partner?” Harry asked. “Maybe he did something to get her here.”
“So he could go to jail with Chessman?” Edward guffawed, regretting telling Harry that Chessman had a secret partner. The phone taps had provided that useful information, though Edward hadn’t yet identified that partner. Text messages didn’t have voices that could be matched, and the phone wasn’t a landline or a traceable cell. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, something got her here.”
Edward lowered the binoculars. “None of the usual suspects, including us, want her to remember, Harry. She’s got us on this place. We’ll all go to prison. What we want is her far away and scared to talk—”
“She’s right here, man.”
“—or dead,” Edward finished.
“So shoot her.” Harry pointed to the .45 on the seat at Edward’s thigh.
“No, not when she’s with Brandt.”
“Shoot him too.”
“No.” Killing Brandt wasn’t negotiable.
Harry’s frustration manifested in a sigh so deep it swelled his chest and hunched his shoulders. “Sometimes I don’t get you. The guy means nothing. He’s just in the way. We’re already down for her. What’s the difference if he’s on the list too?”
Edward glared at Harry. “The difference is we messed up. We killed his son and his wife by mistake, moron. We’re not taking him out too.”
“But, Edward—”
“No!” Edward elevated his voice, something he rarely permitted himself to do. “Brandt’s off-limits. That’s final.”
Harry shook his head, then glared out the rear window. “Well, I hope Paul Johnson feels the same way you do. Otherwise, we’ve probably got ourselves a problem.”
Edward wiped at a speck on his thigh. “What are you talking about?”
“Behind us.” Harry hooked a thumb backward. “Johnson.”
Edward looked back. Johnson was there, all right, and he sat in his Lexus with the barrel of a scoped rifle aimed at the woman standing at the beach house’s front door.
15
There’s no one here, Karen.” She had to be disappointed. Ben touched her shoulder to soften that blow. “I’ll check the window to be sure.”
“I’ll look on this side.” She stepped off the porch and disappeared around the west side of the house.
Ben rounded the east corner, stepped through the weeds, and cupped his hands at the window. Empty. The paint on the walls looked dull and dirty, and trash lay heaped in the corner. Empty long enough that homeless people had been using the place as shelter from the weather. One thing was clear. Ben started toward the front of the beach house. From the amount of trash around, the place hadn’t just become empty; no one had lived here for months.
Near the porch, he looked but didn’t see Karen. “Where are you?”
No answer.
“Karen?”
Still no answer.
A warning blared in his mind. Ben moved quickly, kicking up a spray of sand. Nothing out front. He kept running, made the western corner, and caught a flash of a man in black running down the beach. Ben scanned the shore and stopped cold.
