by Mary Stone
“Are you okay, dear?”
The old woman startled me back to the moment, and I realized my hands had tightened into fists. Sweat dripped down my back and from my armpits. I forced my entire body to relax, then smiled down into the concerned face.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, “but my stomach is wanting to embarrass me, and I was trying to hold it back.” I gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Trust me, you’ll want me to hold it back.”
She tittered, raising her lily-white handkerchief to cover her mouth. Then she dug in her purse and pulled out a damn anti-farting pill bottle and tapped two giant white tablets into her palm. “Chew these, dear. It’ll help.”
I could do nothing else besides pop the chalky medicine into my mouth and try not to gag at the flavor. I couldn’t leave the service early because that would call attention to me. That wouldn’t do.
“Thanks,” I whispered around the mush in my mouth. “I feel better already.”
She seemed pleased and returned her attention to the service. I did too, mentally correcting the preacher as he droned on and on about coming together to say goodbye to the faithful pair.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
I was careful to keep my gaze away from the father and sister. It upset me too much.
But I would get my revenge. I’d delivered a bug to Tim Young’s smartphone by pretending to be a charity that just needed him to tap a link to accept the donation made in his wife and daughter’s name. Easy peasy.
The bug gave me total control of the device. I listened to his calls, read his messages, watched him and the girl through the little camera.
Tim Young had many good friends, and one had offered to let him and little Mariah stay at their cabin on Westhampton Lake. The location was remote, the friend had promised, and “very secure.” Not a soul would know where they would be staying.
The friend was wrong.
I knew. And I’d already been there, walked every inch of the place.
Tonight, I would finish what Will Hoult had failed to do.
“This afternoon,” the preacher was saying, “I want to remind you of the day when Jesus hung on the cross. He didn’t hang there alone. No, two others hung beside him. One of them mocked Jesus, but the other one believed. When the believer asked Jesus, “Will you remember me?” our Jesus responded with this.” The preacher threw up his hands. “Today, you will be with me in paradise. You will be with me in heaven.”
Finally, something this preacher man and I could agree on.
Tim and Mariah Young would be meeting Jesus today.
37
Noah stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. As he and Miguel neared the end of their bumpy journey down the narrow gravel road, Noah spotted the rear fender of a forest green pickup. From all the time he’d spent reading and rereading interview notes and information collected from Kent Strickland and his father, Noah knew right away that the pickup belonged to George Strickland.
Glancing to Miguel in the driver’s seat, Noah raised a hand to gesture to the truck. “That’s his vehicle. He’s home.”
Miguel nodded as they slowed to a stop in front of a hulking, two-story farmhouse. “Here’s hoping he’s not going to be as obstinate as his kid.”
Noah almost groaned. Interviewing Kent Strickland had been about as helpful as consulting with a literal rock. For a man who was quite clearly guilty of the crime for which he’d been charged, Strickland sure liked to pretend there was a chance he was innocent.
His lawyer had filed one motion right after another to delay the trial, and Strickland was being kept in protective custody—right alongside the snitches and dirty cops that otherwise would be eaten alive by the general prison population. It pissed Noah off.
Flakes of black paint fell from the front door as Noah knocked on it a little harder than was absolutely necessary. He knocked a second time, then a third. Where was the man?
“I’m coming. Hold your horses.”
George Strickland was tucking his shirt into his pants as he opened the door. His hair was freshly combed and still wet from a shower. He glared at them as he adjusted his belt. “You’re early.”
Noah checked his watch. They were, by three whole minutes. “My apologies. Sorry to rush you, but we appreciate you taking the time to see us.”
Strickland held the door open. “Don’t know why you’re here. I’ve told you people everything I could possibly know about every little detail of my and Kent’s life. I can’t see how I’ll have anything else to add.”
Noah tapped a folder in his hand. “Is there a place where we can sit? We won’t take much of your time. We have a different line of questions for you, and I’m hoping you can help us with a different case we’re working on.”
Strickland looked confused. “I don’t see how, but come on, we can sit at the kitchen table. Got lemonade and sweet tea. Choose your poison.”
Miguel chose tea, as did Noah and Strickland himself. It was actually really good. Most people made it too syrupy sweet or left it too bitter. Strickland scored a point for getting it just right.
“Thank you. This is very good.”
The older man seemed pleased. “My mother’s recipe. Calls for sugar mixed with honey. Glad you like it.”
“I do, very much.” He took another long swallow. “As I was saying at the door, we have another case that we hope you can help us with.”
“And as I said at the door, I doubt I’ll be able to help you, but shoot.”
Noah pulled out the high school photo of Jaime Peterson. “Do you know this person?”
Strickland squinted at the picture, then pulled a pair of bifocals from his shirt pocket and slipped them on his face. “Oh yeah. That’s Jaime Patterson.” He frowned. “No, that ain’t right. Richardson? No. Peterson.” He snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Jaime Peterson. Why are you asking?”
Noah ignored the question. “Can you tell me what you know about him? How you got to know him? The timeline.”
Strickland scratched his temple. “Well, the boys were in high school and they’d all come out to the farm together to shoot guns and work on tactical kind of training. Told me they were going to join the service when they got old enough and they were practicing now so they’d be standouts.” Strickland frowned, his eyes growing sad. “I guess they stood out in a different way.”
Noah felt sympathy for the man, but he still wasn’t convinced that he was completely ignorant to what the boys had been up to.
“They were all good friends?”
“Oh, yeah. The best. They had a club and code names and everything.”
Noah leaned forward. “What were the names?”
Strickland scratched his temple again, before remembering that his glasses were still on and placing them on the table. “Let’s see…it was something about ghosts, I remember that much.”
Noah was afraid to breathe. Beside him, Miguel’s pencil had stopped writing.
“Kent was Black Ghost, and I believe Jaime was Gray Ghost, or was that Tyler?” Another temple scratch later, and he snapped his fingers. “White Ghost was Jaime. I remember that now because I thought it was funny that the one with black hair would be the white ghost, but…” he shrugged, “kids. They’re gonna do what they’re gonna do.”
That was the truth.
As a teenager, Noah had been a fairly good kid, but he’d also done some things that would’ve given his mother a heart attack if she had known anything about them. Now, even at over thirty, he’d never admit to how often he’d slipped out of the house or how much alcohol he’d drunk. He’d never let her know how many drag races he’d won. Or lost. Or what the prize had been, or the punishment.
If he and Winter ever had kids, he was locking them in the house.
They talked a little more, nailed down the timeline a bit tighter, but when George could do no more than scratch his temple, it was time for them to leave. It was getting late, and they still had a good two-hour drive back to the bureau. Parrish had sched
uled a freaking eight p.m. briefing, so he needed to sit through that before he could go home and tug Winter’s ponytail just once.
If she would let him.
As exciting as it was to know that Jaime Peterson was most likely the third person in the manifesto, he knew it would hit Winter hard.
He needed to call her on the way, give her a heads-up about what he’d learned. The last thing he wanted to do was have her hearing this news surrounded by her peers.
Miguel drove, and Noah dialed Winter’s number. Straight to voicemail. Dammit.
“Hey, it’s me,” he said after the tone. “I’m two hours out, and we’ll be going straight to the bureau for the briefing. Call me first. There’s something I need to tell you.”
For good measure, he texted her basically the same thing.
An hour later, he called again. Texted again.
As they crossed over the Richmond city line, they got stuck in a long line of traffic, and Noah knew they wouldn’t make it back by eight o’clock.
He texted and called a third time. Where was she? He was ready to punch his fist through the windshield by the time the building was in view. As they pulled into the parking lot, he texted one last time.
Do not go into that meeting! Wait for me in the hall!!! Urgent.
Heart pounding in his chest, he jumped out of the car before Miguel could even get the transmission into park. He ran into the building. He needed to find Winter.
There were still a few key members missing when Aiden started the briefing. He liked to be on time, and Max Osbourne expected it.
Everyone in the room looked tired, but that couldn’t be helped. Too much was happening too fast, and they each needed to report any new findings.
SAC Osbourne went first, reminding each agent in no uncertain terms just how vital it was that they close this case and close it now. He was getting pressure from the governor and every world leader known to man. Or at least, that was how he made it sound.
After Max had finished his spiel, he went around the room, asking for updates. Unfortunately, there weren’t many.
Will Hoult had been a breakthrough, but the man was no help to them since he was dead. Forensics had been over every inch of that hotel with a magnifying glass and had come up with exactly nada other than the cross and “Judas” spelled out in his blood on the wall. Whoever killed Hoult was a formidable opponent, and Aiden was deeply worried that he knew exactly who that opponent was.
Justin Black.
Douglas Kilroy’s protégé?
All roads seemed to be leading back to Winter’s brother, and Aiden was the one who was about to tell her that. He dreaded it immensely, almost as much as he was looking forward to getting that weight off his shoulders.
She was still pissed at him, that much was obvious. She hadn’t even looked in his direction since she’d walked into the room. Not that he could blame her. He had behaved badly. He’d let his fatigue and his genuine concern for her blur the line between personal and professional.
Just as Sun Ming was finishing her report, Noah Dalton burst into the room. He seemed scared, then immediately relieved when his eyes landed on Winter. He swiped his arm over his face to wipe away the sweat.
What was that all about?
“Good of you to join us, Dalton,” he said as the big guy took the empty seat to Winter’s right. He began speaking to her in a low voice, and she waved her hand toward the door. There was something said about messages and phones and dead batteries and something getting charged. It didn’t take a genius to put the story together.
Aiden loudly cleared his throat. “If you could please continue this lovers’ spat later, the rest of the team would appreciate it.” He immediately regretted his choice of words when Winter’s vivid blue eyes flashed death daggers at him.
“Dalton, do you have anything to report?” Miguel came through the door, much more calmly than his partner, and took a seat in the back of the room. “Or should I ask Vasquez, since he’s decided to join us too?”
Dalton gave Winter a “sorry” look, and Winter stiffened, as if bracing for what was to come. So did Aiden.
“I think we’ve found the third person in the manifesto,” Dalton said. “Miquel and I questioned Kent Strickland and got exactly shit. Then we questioned his father, George Strickland.” He pulled out the picture of Jaime Peterson, giving Winter another “sorry” look. “He recognized Jaime Peterson as a good friend of his son and Tyler Haldane. They all practiced shooting and played live war games.”
Winter paled with every word as Noah continued to talk about what the father had said.
When Dalton was finished, Aiden cleared his throat. “Stay on that and learn everything you can. Good work.”
Shit. He might as well make his report now too. Since the bandage had been ripped off, he might as well pour on the alcohol, getting the pain over all at once.
“I agree with your assessment of Jaime Peterson being the third person in the manifesto.”
Aiden watched Winter closely as he spelled out the details regarding his conversation with Phil Rossway and the subsequent murder of his father.
Noah was actively holding Winter up by the time he was finished, and no one in the room seemed to care.
Aiden’s phone buzzed on the table in front of him, and he glanced at the screen. The message line screamed: URGENT!
“Excuse me a moment.”
Max picked up the meeting, instructing Bree to write the new information on the whiteboard. He heard them talking but their words faded away as he opened the email.
No. This couldn’t be right.
But it was.
The world tilted to the side, and he put his hand on the table to steady himself.
“What is it?” Max barked. When Aiden didn’t answer, Max took the phone from his hand and looked at the screen. “Son of a bitch.”
The roomful of agents began to stir, the buzz of their questions and curiosity causing a hiss in the room.
“What is it?” Sun Ming asked, making the question seem more like an order.
Aiden didn’t know if he could answer, so he nodded to Max, letting the SAC take the lead.
“We have a new case. Double homicide.” Osbourne took in a deep breath, blew it out. “Timothy and Mariah Young were murdered this evening. Preacher style.”
The End
To be continued…
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Winter Black Series by Mary Stone
Winter’s Mourn (Winter Black Series: Book One)
Winter’s Curse (Winter Black Series: Book Two)
Winter’s Redemption (Winter Black Series: Book Three)
Winter’s Rise (Winter Black Series: Book Four)
Winter’s Ghost (Winter Black Series: Book Five)
Winter’s Secret (Winter Black Series: Book Six)
Winter’s We
b (Winter Black Series: Book Seven)
Acknowledgments
How does one properly thank everyone involved in taking a dream and making it a reality? Let me try.
In addition to my family, whose unending support provided the foundation for me to find the time and energy to put these thoughts on paper, I want to thank the editors who polished my words and made them shine.
Many thanks to my publisher for risking taking on a newbie and giving me the confidence to become a bona fide author.
More than anyone, I want to thank you, my reader, for clicking on a nobody and sharing your most important asset, your time, with this book. I hope with all my heart I made it worthwhile.
Much love,
Mary
About the Author
Mary Stone lives among the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains of East Tennessee with her two dogs, four cats, a couple of energetic boys, and a very patient husband.
As a young girl, she would go to bed every night, wondering what type of creature might be lurking underneath. It wasn’t until she was older that she learned that the creatures she needed to most fear were human.
Today, she creates vivid stories with courageous, strong heroines and dastardly villains. She invites you to enter her world of serial killers, FBI agents but never damsels in distress. Her female characters can handle themselves, going toe-to-toe with any male character, protagonist or antagonist.
Discover more about Mary Stone on her website.
www.authormarystone.com
