by Amy Vansant
She gaped. “You’re saying William is—”
“Ladies!” Cough barked the word, shaking the bullet in his tongs. “Someone else killed Beatriz. The second shot is a different caliber.”
Angelina blanched. “William found her. ”
Shee tossed the sketches on Tyler Vale’s shins as she turned for the door.
“Mason’s out looking for him.”
&&&
Chapter Forty-Eight
Two Years Ago
Scotty Carson sat in the hard wooden chair as the Master-at-Arms chained his wrists to the interview table. On the opposite side of the desk sat a familiar man, though Scotty couldn’t place him. He wore civilian clothing but his posture and choice of haircut smacked of military. Retired, Scotty guessed, considering he appeared to be in his late sixties or early seventies.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The stranger stared at him as if he could set him ablaze with his eyes. “You’re supposed to get out soon. I’m not going to let that happen.”
Scotty forced a smile. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
The stranger sniffed. “Because you killed my daughter.”
Scotty looked away to hide the ripple of concern he felt running like seismic activity beneath his expression.
Is that where I know this guy from?
It didn’t make sense. The high school slut’s dad was a skinny guy with glasses. An accountant or lawyer or something. Scotty pictured him at the funeral—the funeral he’d attended as her grieving ex-boyfriend. It still gave him shivers of joy remembering all those mourning people, and him, smack in the middle of the crowd, the only person who knew what happened to her.
He closed his eyes and fought his way from his daydream.
Stop it. Pay attention.
This man wasn’t her father.
Are they trying to pin another murder on me?
Scotty returned his attention to his visitor and repeated the phrase he’d said so many times before—at his trial, at his parole review boards...
“I never killed anyone.”
The man pulled a photo from the chest pocket of his linen short-sleeve shirt, slapped it to the table and slid it forward. “You killed that girl. We proved that. But you killed my daughter, too, same as if you pulled the trigger.”
Scotty glanced down at the mugshot of his first cell mate, Jugger.
Wait.
That’s who this is? But if his daughter is dead—
Nothing made any sense.
Jugger had been dead for years. He’d promised to be his right hand, and he’d failed. After Jugger, he’d hired one assassin after another. He’d spent over ten years hunting her, the one who rallied the whores from the Academy to claim rape, the one who pointed the police toward his missing ex-girlfriend. Orchestrating a hit from prison wasn’t easy. Finding Siofra McQueen proved even harder.
Is this her father?
Is the old man saying she’s dead?
Scotty leaned as far back in his chair as he could with his wrists chained to the table.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The iron-haired man shifted in his chair. He seemed agitated, as if he were straining against invisible bindings. Scotty felt confident those hidden ropes were the only thing keeping the old man from pouncing on him like a tiger.
“I was there. Remember? I put the cuffs on you, you piece of shit. Name’s Mick McQueen.”
Scotty pictured the dark-haired girl in the honky tonk and the man in the booth she’d pretended to struggle against. The man’s image remained fuzzy. He’d only had eyes for Shee.
Mick continued. “You had your ex-cellmate try to kill my daughter. He missed.”
I’m aware.
“He hit my other daughter.”
Laughter exploded from Scotty as if he’d been holding it back since his incarceration, spittle atomizing into a cloud around him. A drop landed on his accuser’s chin and the man’s scowl pinched deeper. He didn’t wipe it away. He just glared.
“You’re kidding?” Scotty glanced at the camera in the corner of the room. “I mean, not that I hired anyone, but that is some shitty luck, my friend.”
A tornado of emotions gyrated inside Scotty. He’d thought for a moment the daughter that should be dead, was. That didn’t fit his new plan. He’d spent the last year thinking about her—not just fantasizing about what he’d like to do to her, but planning. He’d be out soon. He’d hire someone to find her, but he’d be the one to finish her.
He’d be the one to make sure she suffered for ruining his life.
Just a little longer.
It would be a lot easier to get things done right when he was free.
He smiled, anticipating the release of it.
She’d be older now, but he bet she still looked pretty good. He’d work her until she felt his whole damn prison sentence.
Mick McQueen stood, his fists squeezed tight at his sides. His movement snapped Scotty from his thoughts. It looked as though the guy might pounce on him, after all.
The old man ran his tongue over his front teeth. “Look for me at your parole hearing.”
Scotty smirked, but his stomach soured.
Could this guy cause trouble? He knows about Jugger. Does he have proof, though? What else does he know?
This couldn’t happen now. Not when he was so close to getting out.
Scotty lolled in his chair. “That it?”
“That’s it. I just wanted to see your face. Make sure I was right. I am.” Mick moved to the exit. Scotty waited for the sound of the door opening, but it didn’t come. Instead, the man spoke again.
“Hey, Scotty, you like your new spot?”
Scotty twisted in his seat. He’d been recently transferred from Chesapeake to the Jacksonville, Florida brig. He’d wondered why.
“Are you making friends?” asked McQueen.
Scotty scowled. He wasn’t making friends. He’d already narrowly avoided being attacked once and he’d only been there two days.
“No?” the man continued. “That’s too bad. I guess you shouldn’t have raped all those little girls.”
Scotty sat up. “I never—”
A cold sweat beaded across the back of his neck.
Oh no.
That’s what the other inmates had said to him. Something about him and little girls. At the time he thought they’d been referring to the women he’d raped. But now—
McQueen shook his head, somehow looking regretful and giddy at the same time. “Shame how rumors get started. Nobody likes kiddie predators.”
Scotty jerked on his chains. “I’m going to kill you.”
“See you at your parole hearing.” McQueen grinned and knocked on the door to be let out. “If you live that long.”
&&&
Scotty’s eyes fluttered open, the light above him, blinding.
Someone gasped. He turned toward the noise. A dark-skinned woman peered over him, her expression broad with what looked like shock.
“You’re awake,” she said.
He licked his dry lips and chewed his tongue, trying to work up the spit to swallow.
“Where am I?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You’re in the brig’s medical ward.”
Scotty looked around the tiny room and tried to remember what happened. Faces danced in his memory. Angry faces. A group of inmates, punching him, slamming his head into the cement floor...
“How long have I been out?” he asked.
“Almost a month.”
A month? But I was two weeks away from—
He grabbed the woman’s hand. “My parole—”
She patted his arm and smiled. She had kind eyes. Dumb eyes.
“I was just now getting you ready to go home,” she said.
“I got it? I’m out?”
“I don’t—” Her brow knit. “I heard your father made a case for taking you home. I don’t know about parole.”
Scot
ty nodded. During his run for senator, his father had distanced himself from his black sheep son. Looked like the old man had finally come through for him.
The nurse held up a finger. “Hold tight. I have to get the doctor.”
“Wait,” Scotty clamped on her wrist to keep her from moving. “Don’t. You can’t. They might not let me go.”
“But—”
Scotty’s mind raced. He had to do something, quick. He lowered his voice. “Listen. I’m rich. My family has tons of money. I’ll make it worth your effort.”
The woman bit her lip and looked at the door.
She’s thinking about it.
She pulled against him a little. He held tight.
“You can’t fake a vegetative state,” she said.
“I won’t have to fake it for long.”
“But you can’t—”
He snarled. “Then put me back.”
Her eyes flashed white and she pulled from his hold.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. This is all so confusing.” He took a deep breath, thinking about flies and honey. “Please help me.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek.
He bulldozed on.
“I’ll pay off your house. Put your kids through college—you have any kids?”
She didn’t answer, but he could see by her expression she did.
“Son?” He paused, seeing no reaction. “Daughter?”
Her cheek twitched.
There it is.
She remained silent.
“I’ll hire you as my private nurse on a yearly salary and you won’t have to do a thing. We’re talking life-changing money.”
Her jaw creaked open. She looked terrified. She didn’t like his proposal but she couldn’t seem to say no.
Just another little push. I need to give her a reason to do it beyond money.
“Please. If they throw me out there again, they’ll kill me.”
“Who? Why?”
Scotty grimaced, stalling for time to think. “Do you know why I’m here in the first place?”
She shook her head.
Excellent.
“I’m innocent. I know everyone says that, but I’ve been in jail for decades on a trumped-up charge because of what I know.” He glanced at the open door and lowered his voice. “The man who put me here is trying to kill me.”
The nurse stared at him in rapt attention. “Why?”
Remember, she has a daughter.
“Because he killed a girl and I know it. If I get out I’m going to prove it.”
She gasped and raised her hand to cover her mouth.
Scotty clasped his own hands together as if he were about to pray. “If you help me get out of here, you’ll be helping to put away a very bad man. Who knows who you’ll be saving from him...”
“I could induce a coma...” The nurse’s eyes drifted as she retreated into her thoughts. “I’d have to see if they have what I need—”
Scotty tilted his brows like an opening bridge, and forced his lower lip to tremble. Working up real tears seemed beyond his abilities, but he added a quaver to his voice. “You’re an angel. A godsend.” He reached out and she gave him her hand. He clasped it gently between his own two hands. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
She smiled, her expression softening further. “Martisha.”
&&&
Chapter Forty-Nine
Shee ran into the lobby and headed for the front door. The elevator opened when she passed it as if it was motion-activated. Croix stepped out.
“What’s going on?”
“I need a gun. Now.” Shee threw out a palm as if the girl could manifest a weapon and drop it into her hand.
Croix brushed past her to get to the reception desk. Shee fell into line behind her until the girl dropped to a squat behind the counter and Shee had to stop short to keep from falling over her.
“Where were you?” Shee asked.
“Angelina has me watching Mick, but I think he—”
“Don’t let William anywhere up there.”
“Why?” Croix slid two books from the shelf in front of her. Shee heard something click.
“Remember that story about my first capture? Scotty Carson?”
“Yeah?”
“I think we just figured out William is Scotty.”
“What? That’s crazy.”
Croix looked as animated as Shee had ever seen the girl. It was almost as if she’d finally said something worthy of Croix’s consideration. She felt honored.
The girl jerked on the bookshelf and it slid away, revealing a lighted panel. Handguns hung from the blue felt-covered wall inside, several large knives interspersed, to break up the monotony of the firearms. A row of grenades lined a low shelf like portly armored soldiers awaiting their orders.
“What, no rocket launcher?” asked Shee.
“I think that’s out in the shed.” Croix waved her hand like a game show hostess. “Take your pick.” She pulled open a drawer. Inside, clips and boxes of bullets sat neatly organized.
Shee leaned to snatch a Glock 19 9mm from the wall. By the time she straightened, Angelina had appeared on the opposite side of the counter, breathless.
“What are you still doing here?” she asked.
“Needed weapons.” Shee dipped to grab another. “One for Mason.” Croix handed her two clips of bullets and she shoved one in each pistol.
Stuffing one gun in her waistband, she moved for the door. “If you see William, don’t let him know we’re on to him, but protect yourselves. Don’t let anyone upstairs.” She paused, hand on the door. “Here’s a thought. Are there guests here?”
Angelina shook her head. “No.”
“Yes,” correct Croix. “Mr. Burrows in three-thirty-six refused to leave. I tried to—”
Angelina put her hands on either side of her head. “Croix—”
“I don’t have time for this,” said Shee. “Figure it out. I have to go warn Mason.”
She pushed through the front door and then paused, realizing the door usually opened before she could touch it.
Where’s Bracco?
Shee jogged to the end of the porch, crouching before peering around the corner. Ten feet away, Bracco and Mason stood beside each other as if talking.
She scanned the area.
No sign of Scotty.
She ran down the stairs to join them.
“Hey,” she said, slapping on a frozen smile as she approached, in case Scotty was watching.
“Hey,” said Mason. His brow knit. “What’s wrong? You look crazy.”
“We have a problem,” she said, clenched teeth bared like a jackal.
“Inside? Out here, too. Bracco thinks he saw someone in the woods. We shouldn’t stay here exposed.”
Mason turned toward the front of the hotel as Bracco and Shee followed. Shee tried to scan the woods without appearing to stare, but she didn’t see anything. The hotel floodlights spilled as far as the trees, but dissipated into darkness beyond the frontline of leafy sentries.
“Could it be William? Do you know where he is?” Shee looked at the doorman. He shrugged.
“Why are you thinking William?” asked Mason without turning. “Because of the drawing?”
“We found the other half. William isn’t William.”
Mason’s head swiveled. “What?”
“He’s a guy I sent to jail twenty-five years ago. Scotty Carson. Rapist. Murderer. Beatriz has two different rounds in her. One from the dead guy—”
“And you think the other one’s from him?”
“Makes sense. He found them. He could have been working with the dead guy and killed Beatriz when he had the chance.”
“You’re sure he’s Scotty?”
Shee shrugged. “Maybe that’s why Captain had to die. I haven’t seen Scotty. I think he’s been avoiding me on purpose.”
“If Martisha was working with him, why would she keep evide
nce like that?”
Shee considered this. “Leverage? In case he double-crossed her? That sociopath can only pretend to be human for so long.”
Mason mounted the stairs to the front porch. “So you think he shot your dad?”
Shee gasped and gripped the stair railing as the world around her spun on its axis. She’d been concentrating so hard on connecting William and Scotty, wrestling with guilt that Scotty had come for her and killed Beatriz instead, that she’d forgotten to tie everything to what happened to her father.
Mason turned and stared down at her.
“Are you okay?”
“He didn’t get to Martisha after my father was shot. He shot him to draw me out.” She remained still, white-knuckled, as the pieces fell into place like a game of Tetris in her mind.
“You think—”
She looked up at Mason. “He’s the one who’s been trying to kill me all these years.”
Shee’s chest tightened. She turned to head back down the stairs, feeling as if a bomb had detonated in her brain. Mason grabbed her shoulder.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Shee, stop.”
She jerked free only to have him capture her a second time.
“Shee.”
She spun to face him. “What?”
“Take a breath. We have to be smart about this. There are other people in danger here.”
She shook her head. “We have to find him. Now.”
“I agree. But he’s already come with one soldier. He had Martisha under your noses for months. Who’s to say what he has planned? We could take him out right now and still end up with an army at the hotel.”
Shee dropped her face into her hands and screamed, vibrating with frustration.
Mason continued. “If Bracco saw what he thinks he saw, there’s someone in the woods. Maybe Scotty, maybe more assassins.”
“And?”
“And, if we head toward those trees looking for him, he’ll see us coming from a mile away.”
Shee hated Mason sounding so reasonable. All she wanted to do was run around the hotel, shooting like a video game character, until Scotty had so much lead in him he was declared a health hazard.
