Dead Even

by Mariah Stewart

  No one who’d ever left the compound had surfaced to talk about what had gone on there. Prescott wasn’t about to take the chance that Julianne would be the first. That she was the daughter of one of his most trusted financial counselors meant nothing at all. Jules knew that, and it bothered him, but it merely strengthened his resolve to find Julianne and take her back himself.

  Then there was the question of Miss Ruth. Jules knew that Prescott would go to the ends of the earth to track her down. He didn’t want to be around when Prescott found her.

  Mara, of course, was the key to finding Ruth. It was Jules’s plan to take Mara with them in order to turn her over to the reverend. He might as well make points where and when he could. He figured Prescott would have his men take Mara to one of his many homes that were scattered throughout the country, and would, more likely than not, send Jules and Julianne to a different location.

  Assuming, of course, that Prescott didn’t have other plans for the two of them. Jules’s mouth went dry at the thought of what Prescott could do to them, if he wanted. He could easily kill Jules, and send Julianne to one of his clients. Handing over Mara, which hopefully would lead to finding Ruth—if in fact that was her name—would go a long way toward rectifying the problem. A speedy return of Jules and his daughter would further placate Prescott.

  So, if he was to survive, he was going to have to take care of business now. They would have to leave, the three of them, and they would have to leave soon. Prescott had lent him his private plane, and he’d had someone meet him at the airport with a car and a .38. But he’d also only given Jules forty-eight hours before he sent in someone to finish the job for him, and those forty-eight hours were almost gone. Jules got sick to his stomach every time he thought about what finishing the job might mean.

  From his shelter beneath the arbor, Jules kept his eyes on the house. Mara would have someone keeping watch, wouldn’t she? Surely she couldn’t possibly think that he’d let her get away with a stunt like this, could she? She couldn’t possibly be that stupid.

  He was just beginning to think that perhaps she was indeed that stupid when the back door of the neighbor’s house opened and a figure emerged. He stood for a long time on the top step, his arms folded across his chest. Finally, he raised one hand and gave some kind of a sign. Jules’s eyes followed the gesture. It took him a while, but finally he saw the second figure, also dressed in black, near the corner of Mara’s garage.

  More than one private investigator?

  Cops?

  Nah, he mentally smacked himself on the forehead.

  FBI.

  That would explain all those Virginia “Friends of the Chesapeake” license plates he’d seen when he’d driven past the house earlier.

  Sure. Annie. FBI Annie, he used to call her. She’d have brought in the troops for this, wouldn’t she?

  And wasn’t that just dandy, he thought sourly. Just what the Right Reverend Prescott was going to want to hear.

  He watched the man on the porch finish smoking his cigarette, then toss it onto the grass. He stepped on it and the small dot of red disappeared.

  Next door, the kitchen lights were turned out. The first floor of the house lay in darkness now. If he was going to make his move, he couldn’t wait much longer. The sooner he got in and out of there and away, the better off he’d be. He started to sweat just thinking about how Prescott was going to react to hearing that the FBI had been behind Julianne’s disappearance from the compound.

  He’d worry about what to say to Prescott later.

  Right now he had two FBI agents to deal with—at least two.

  He paused. Could there be more? Inside, maybe, might be another. Three cars with Virginia plates, three agents?

  He watched for another half hour but saw no one, other than the two agents he’d previously spotted. The one on the porch never ventured farther than the end of the house, while the agent closest to Mara’s house wandered toward the front every fifteen minutes or so, blending into the shadows.

  Jules patted his leg for the knife he had strapped there. He could take out the agent on the porch silently the next time the agent closest to the house made his round out front. Then, when the second agent returned to that spot near the garage he seemed to like so much, Jules would be waiting for him. He could get into the house through the window in the den. He could cut out the glass, slice through the screen. . . .

  Yeah. That would have to be the plan. He was way too close to being out of time . . . this would be his best chance. His last chance.

  Then the agent on Mrs. West’s porch went inside the house. Jules froze. Should he wait for the man to return, or should he go in after him?

  Several minutes passed before he realized he would have to make a move. He’d have to go inside, hope that with the element of surprise on his side, he would be able to overtake his quarry. He was trying to recall the layout of Mrs. West’s house—was there a laundry room off the back hall, or a door to the basement?—when he heard a distinct rustle from the open end of the arbor. Flattening himself to the wall, he watched as a tall figure eased backward into the cover of the thicket. Silently Jules drew his gun and extended his arm so that the newcomer backed into the muzzle.

  “Not a sound,” Jules whispered over the taller man’s shoulder. “Don’t say a word.”

  The man froze.

  “Now, how many?” Jules demanded.

  “Wh-what?” the man stuttered.

  “How many more of you are there?” Jules whispered.

  “It’s just me.”

  “Liar. I know you’ve got one man in the house here, and one man outside next door. How many more?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know who is inside that house or who is outside over there. I swear. . . .”

  “Shhhh. Keep it down. Turn around and face the garage and put your hands on your head.” Jules continued to hold the gun to the middle of the stranger’s back. “Hands on your head. Come on, you’ve arrested how many people, you don’t know where to put your hands when you’re going to be frisked?”

  “Arrested . . . ? Hey, I ain’t no cop—”

  “No. You’re no cop. You’re FBI.”

  “FBI?” Burt Connolly was incredulous. “Buddy, I don’t know what the fuck is going on here, or why you think I’m FBI—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Listen, you’ve got me confused with someone else. I swear. . . .”

  “Oh, right, you were just passing through the neighborhood and decided to take a shortcut through the grape arbor.” Jules sneered softly and jabbed the gun into the middle of the man’s back. “And keep your voice down. Don’t make me tell you again.”

  “Listen, I can explain—”

  “Where’s your ID?” Jules demanded.

  “Only ID I got is my driver’s license.”

  “That in your wallet?” Jules asked after he’d finished patting down his captive and finding only one weapon, which he confiscated and stuck down his belt.

  “Yeah. Left back pocket.”

  Jules retrieved it, but he couldn’t see the name on the license. It was too dark. There was nothing there that even vaguely resembled an FBI identification, though. He’d seen a few of those over the years, when they first started looking at Prescott for tax evasion. He knew that no agent would go on a job without his ID.

  “If you’re not FBI, and you’re not a cop, you must be private security or private investigation. Which is it?”

  “Neither.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “I don’t work for anyone.” The man started to turn and Jules jammed the butt of the gun into his back again.

  “Then what are you doing here? The truth.”

  “I’m watching the house next door.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think there’s someone in there I want to see.”

  “Who?”

  “Woman named Miranda Cahill.”

  “Never heard
of her.” Jules frowned. Had he underestimated Mara? Had she sold the house in his absence?

  “She live there?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. I followed her here.” Burt paused. “If you’re looking for FBI, though, maybe you’re looking for her. She is an FBI agent. And I suspect the guy who came with her is FBI, too.”

  “So you’re telling me there are two in there?” Jules nodded in the direction of Mara’s house.

  “Two that I know of.”

  “How about this other house? How many?” He tilted his head toward Mrs. West’s.

  “I don’t know about that house. I don’t know who’s there.”

  “Who else is over there? With the two agents?”

  “Some blonde woman, pretty. Mid-thirties, maybe. Another woman, dark. Small. I saw them yesterday, but I didn’t see them today.”

  Annie. Mara. No surprise there, Jules thought.

  “A girl? Blonde girl, about twelve, maybe looks a little younger?” Jules asked.

  “Didn’t see a kid.” Burt shook his head.

  “She’s got to be in there,” Jules muttered, more to himself than to his unwanted companion. “Where else could she be?”

  They stood in the same place for another few minutes, the gun still solid in the middle of Burt’s back. Finally, Burt said, “Look, my arms are really starting to hurt. I don’t know what you’re doing here, or what you want with those people, and frankly, I don’t give a fuck. Let me just turn and leave. I haven’t even seen your face; I can’t identify you even if I wanted to. Not that I want to. The last people I need to see right now are the cops. . . .”

  “What do you want her for?” Jules asked. “The woman you followed here.”

  Burt took too long to come up with a good answer.

  “Don’t bother trying to think up a story. Just tell me the truth, goddamn it. What do you want with the woman? She your ex or something?”

  “Someone paid me to follow her.”

  “For what purpose?” Jules poked him again with the gun. “Turn around. I want to see your face.”

  Reluctantly, Burt did as he was told. “I’m supposed to take her out.”

  Jules stared at the man for a long moment.

  “By take her out, I assume you don’t mean on a date,” Jules said dryly. “You mean, you’re supposed to—”

  “Get rid of her, yeah.” Burt slumped back against the garage.

  “Well, that would certainly create a lively diversion, wouldn’t it?” Jules said thoughtfully.

  “What?”

  “Maybe we could help each other.” Jules lowered the gun, but only slightly.

  “Maybe. What is it you want?”

  “I want my daughter. And my wife. They’re in that house.” He nodded in the direction of the house across the drive. “But you’re telling me there are two FBI agents in there. One is the woman you’re after. . . .” Jules scratched his head and continued to think through the situation.

  “You know, maybe we can help each other.” The other man nodded. “I want the woman to come out; you want to get in.”

  “We need to draw both agents outside,” Jules observed.

  “Then you can slip inside, do whatever it is you came to do, and we both go on about our business.”

  “There are two agents outside,” Jules told him. “We need to get rid of both of them. How are you with a knife?”

  Burt shook his head. “Never used one. Gun is my weapon of choice, and right now, you’re holding mine.”

  “So I am.” Jules pondered the situation, trying to figure out how best to utilize this strange turn of events.

  When it came to him, he thought himself quite brilliant.

  “I have an idea,” he whispered.

  “Great.”

  “We’re going to have to work together on this.”

  “Whatever.” Burt’s eyes were still on the stranger’s gun.

  “This is how I see it.” Jules leaned closer, and laid out his plan.

  “Hey, that could work.” Burt nodded with a little more enthusiasm, now that he hadn’t been shot in the back. “I can see that working.”

  “You get what you want; I get what I want. Then we both go on our way.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “The timing is important, though. We have to wait until the guy there by the end of the garage makes his move toward the front of the house. Should be in about another—” Jules looked at his watch and pushed in the pin on the side that illuminated the face. “—four minutes or so. He’ll start over to the house, keep to the shadows, walk all the way around to the front. I’m thinking he might go around to the other side before he starts back.”

  “He does.” Burt nodded. “At least, he did last night. There’s that hedge over there, he walks along it as far as the back fence, then he comes back around again. Sometimes he stands in the doorway and just watches the street. There’s a small porch out there, and it’s dark without the lights on. He sometimes hangs out there a little. I was behind the hedge last night and watched him.”

  “Good, good to know.” Jules smiled. “Now, all we need is for the agent in this house to come out. I don’t know what’s taking him so long. . . .”

  “Oh, him? Last night he was mostly out by the front. There are some shrubs around the front steps.”

  “Yes, yes, I know them.”

  “Well, he stays mostly around the shrubs. Sits on the step, sometimes smokes a cigarette.”

  “Great. I’ve got that covered. Give me five minutes.” Jules slipped out through the vines. “Then watch for me to come back around the corner of the house. We’ll give the guy there by the garage about three minutes, then you’ll make your move.”

  “And you’ll take care of him?”

  “I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Great. Great.” Burt nodded. “It could work. It could be dicey, there’s some room for error, but not bad for impromptu.”

  “Thanks.” Jules patted Burt on the back and started out of the shelter. “Good luck.”

  Burt grabbed him by the back of the shirt and held him motionless.

  “My gun,” Burt reminded him. “You’ve still got my gun.”

  Jules pulled it from inside his belt and handed it over.

  “Sorry.”

  “No harm, no foul,” Burt assured him.

  What a rube. Jules shook his head as he slipped through the shadows toward the back of Mrs. West’s house and around the far side. But that rube is the best shot I have to make this work. . . .

  Jules stood in the midst of the shrubs that Helene West had long ago planted along the front of her house. There was just enough cover for him to blend in long enough for him to get his bearings and to plan his course. The agent he stalked was leaning on the opposite corner of the house, well in the shadows himself. Jules watched him for a full ten minutes, but the man never seemed to have moved a muscle. He unsnapped the sheath, then slowly removed the knife. Keeping to the mulched beds, he crept along the porch, then around it. Knowing he must keep the element of surprise on his side, he made a sudden rush and slammed the knife into the back of his unsuspecting target. A whoosh of surprise escaped the lips of his victim, and Jules pulled the knife out, then reached over the slumping figure to slice the man’s throat from one side to the other. He let the body down easy, the rest of the way to the ground, and watched the mulch grow soggy and red. Wiping first the knife, then his hands, on the back of the dying man’s shirt, he dropped the knife back into its holder and stepped around the corner of the house, searching in the dark for his new best buddy.

  He spotted him there, at the arbor, gesturing for Jules to stay put. Sinking back into the shrubs, Jules watched for the agent across the way to make his move. After a long seven minutes, he finally did. As soon as the agent disappeared around the side of the house, Jules’s new friend emerged from the shadows. Burt ran toward the back gate of the house next door, waving in Jules’s direction so that he would know it was cle
ar for him, too, to move.

  But instead of following the agent to the front of the house, where he was expected to surprise and overtake him, Jules kept to the shadows that surrounded Mrs. West’s house and, standing in the middle of the driveway, fired two shots straight through Burt Connolly’s back.

  The shots echoed through the backyard, and just as Jules had anticipated, the back door of Mara’s house flew open. He watched a woman emerge and fly off the deck as two men ran from the front. As they gathered around the fallen stranger, Jules ducked behind the cars and made his move toward the open front door. He figured he’d have, at best, a scant few minutes before his window of opportunity closed. He couldn’t afford to be on the wrong side of it when it did.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  Miranda was the first to reach the fallen man. After checking and determining there was no pulse, she looked up at Aidan and Will, who’d run down the drive from the front after hearing the shot.

  “Nice aim, Cahill,” Will noted. “But we need to talk about the fact that you left the house alone and without telling me you were going.”

  “I didn’t shoot him.” She frowned. “I thought Aidan got him.”

  “I was on the other side of the house,” Aidan told them.

  “Which leaves Rob,” Will said. He cupped his hands and called across the drive. “Hey, Rob. Great shot. You got him.”

  When there was no answer, Aidan called out, “Rob? You out there, man?”

  Aidan and Will exchanged a worried glance.

  “Something is not right,” Aidan said under his breath. “Rob should be out there. . . .”

  Aidan crept along the garage and headed for the West house next door.

  Moments later, he’d made his way around to the front, where he found what he’d feared.

  “Will,” he called across the drive.

  “You found him?” Will called back.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I found him.”

  “He hurt? Need an ambulance?”

  “Too late for an ambulance. But put a call in for the local police. We’re going to need them. . . .”