Case File: Canyon Creek, Wyoming

by Graves, Paula

  And seeing Hannah Cooper again would be a pleasure, indeed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Saturday morning turned out to be sunny and mild, warm for mid-October. Hannah would have preferred to be out on the lake by sunrise, but today she was on the clock for a paying client, so she played by his rules.

  She brewed a pot of coffee at home and poured it into a sturdy thermos in case the client needed a little caffeine to get him going in the morning. She’d packed her boat with all the necessary rods and tackle the night before, and her father had culled out four dozen minnows, ready to stow in the boat’s bait well in case the client wanted to fish with live bait.

  Her parents were already at work at the bait shop when she arrived. “Are you sure you want to take this one by yourself?” her father asked her, worry in his eyes. “It’s so soon after—”

  “It’s a fishing trip. I’ve been doing these by myself for years,” she assured him, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. He smelled like Old Spice and mint toothpaste, the scents familiar and comforting, reminding her that she was safely home, surrounded by a loving, fiercely protective family.

  “I went ahead and put the minnows in the bait well for you,” he said. “And J.D. gassed it up for you last night, so you should be ready to go.”

  Car headlights sliced through the early-morning gloom outside the bait shop.

  “Must be your client,” her mother said.

  Anxiety slithered through her belly at the sound of footsteps crunching the gravel outside. She wrestled it into submission and pasted a welcoming smile on her face as the sandy-haired man in his early thirties entered the bait shop and flashed them a friendly smile.

  “Ms. Cooper?” The man held out his hand. “Ken Lassiter.”

  She shook his hand firmly. “Good morning, Mr. Lassiter.”

  “Ken, please. I can call you Hannah?”

  “Of course.” She walked around the counter to the cash register. “We can take all major credit cards, or cash. We don’t take checks from out of state.”

  “Cash is fine.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a folded stack of bills and placed them on the counter. Hannah rang up the service and thanked him.

  “How long have you been guiding?” he asked once they had boarded her small, sleek Triton TC 17 and settled in for the ride across the lake to one of her favorite fall crappie spots.

  “Since I got my boating license about twelve years ago,” she answered, raising her voice above the roar of the Mercury outboard. “I grew up on the lake, so I’ve been fishing since I could hold a cane pole.”

  Ken flashed her a quick smile, then looked back out over the lake. “Quiet this morning.”

  “A lot of the boats are already out this time of day.”

  “Are we going to be rubbing elbows with a lot of other fishermen, then?” he asked, looking a little disappointed.

  “Not where I’m taking you,” she assured him.

  The wind was brisk and cool as they skimmed the green waters of Gossamer Lake, but she knew it would warm up once they dropped anchor and started trolling for the quirky little speckled-white fish they were after this morning. Meanwhile, the loamy smell of the lake and the rosy glow of the morning sky gave her a giddy feeling of well-being, the first glimpse of her normal self since she returned home from Wyoming.

  She should have come out fishing sooner. It had always been her favorite way of centering her world.

  Maybe she’d get Riley Patterson out of her heart yet.

  RILEY’S CELL PHONE RANG around 7:00 a.m., while he was in the motel bathroom about to shave. He fished the phone out of the pocket of his jeans. It was Joe’s cell number. “Yeah?”

  “Where are you?” The tension in Joe’s voice set Riley’s nerves immediately on edge.

  “Budget Suites Motel in Birmingham.” He headed out of the bathroom, shaving forgotten. “What’s going on?”

  “How long will it take you to get to Gossamer Ridge?”

  “Hour and a half, I think—what’s going on?”

  The brief pause on the other end of the line made Riley’s empty stomach cramp. It was almost a relief when Joe spoke. “I think we’ve found the killer.”

  Riley dropped heavily on to the bed. “Who?”

  “Guy named Kyle Layton. Six-one, early thirties, sandy-blond hair, gray eyes. A security guard at Memorial Hospital.”

  “Someone recognized the ring,” Riley guessed.

  “He wears it on his left pinky finger, like Hannah said.”

  “Can we connect him to our other cases?”

  “We can connect him to at least one, I’m pretty sure,” Joe answered grimly. “He was working as a prison guard in the Casper area when Emily was killed. He was one of the ones in charge of taking prisoners to the hospital where she worked when they couldn’t handle their injuries or illnesses at the prison infirmary.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Riley curled his hand into a fist as bleak rage poured into his gut like acid. “Tell me you have him in custody, Joe.”

  “He boarded a plane out of Casper yesterday morning around 9:00 a.m.,” Joe answered. “Headed for Nashville, Tennessee.”

  “Tennessee?” It took a moment for Riley to get it. “Oh, hell.”

  “It’s less than a three-hour drive to Gossamer Ridge. We’ve been able to ascertain that he spent the night at the motel in Nashville, but none of the staff has seen him this morning, and he’s not in his room.”

  Riley lurched off the bed, swiping his keys and his holstered Ruger off the dresser. He shrugged on his jacket, snapped the holster to the waistband of his jeans and grabbed his hat on his way out the door. He took the steps down to the rental car two at a time. “I need you to get the Chickasaw County Sheriff’s Department on the phone. Ask for—” He grimaced. What the hell was the brother’s name? “Ask for a Cooper. I can’t remember the name.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “If you get him, tell him to find his sister and keep her in one place until I can get there. And give him my cell number.” Riley rang off and jerked the rental car into gear, startling a maintenance staffer who was out picking up garbage in the cool of the early morning.

  Punching the number of Hannah’s cell phone into his cell phone as he sped up the on-ramp to I–59, he muttered a fervent prayer that she’d answer. But her voicemail connected after two rings. “Hannah, it’s Riley. If you get this, find your parents or one of your brothers and stick with them until I get there. I’m in Birmingham but I’m heading your way. Do not go anywhere alone, do you hear me? We’ve found the killer. His name is Kyle Layton.” He rattled off the description Joe had given him. “He’s on his way to Alabama.”

  The voicemail beeped, cutting him off. He cursed and considered calling back but decided he’d been able to record enough to warn her to stay put. He tried directory assistance next and got the phone number for the Cooper Cove Marina booking office, but voicemail kicked in at that number as well. He left a similar message and rang off, a slow, sick terror rising like bile in his throat.

  Where the hell was she? Was he already too late?

  He was somewhere just past Gadsden, about five miles from the Gossamer Ridge exit and driving as fast as he dared when his cell phone rang. He grabbed it, not even checking the display. “Riley Patterson.”

  “This is Aaron Cooper. Hannah’s brother.” The voice on the other end of the line was low and tense. “Joe Garrison gave me your number.”

  “Tell me Hannah’s with you right now,” Riley demanded.

  “She’s not. She’s out on the lake with a client.”

  The knots in Riley’s stomach twisted into new knots. “A client?”

  “I talked to my parents. She and a fishing client left around six-thirty this morning. Guy named Ken Lassiter.”

  “Six-one, sandy-blond hair, gray eyes?”

  On the other end of the line, Aaron let loose a stream of profanities. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Do you have any
idea where she’d take him?”

  “One or two. I’m about ten minutes away from the lake. I’ll call my brothers. They’re probably already on the lake with clients. How far away are you?”

  “I’m taking the Gossamer Ridge exit now,” he said, jerking the rental car hard right and down the off-ramp.

  “You’re only a couple of miles from the turn-off to the marina. Take a left and watch for the sign on your left. You may beat me there, but wait for me!” Aaron rang off.

  Though bleakly certain it was a futile gesture, Riley tried Hannah’s cell number again. Voicemail again. He snapped the phone shut with a growl and took a left at the bottom of the ramp, shooting through a yellow light and hoping like hell there weren’t any speed traps between him and the marina.

  Hannah was on the lake with a killer, and he might already be too late.

  HANNAH SLOWLY STEERED the Triton with the stick, watching her client twitch the jig around the edge of the sunken pier. This was one of her favorite fishing holes, but so far Ken Lassiter wasn’t having much luck. He lacked the smooth, instinctive rhythm of an experienced crappie fisherman, but so far he’d refused her suggestion that he switch to live bait.

  “Where are you from, Mr. Lassiter?” she asked, bringing the boat to a stop and unreeling the anchor until she felt it thump lightly on the muddy lake bottom.

  “Idaho.” He flashed her a rueful smile. “Not a lot of crappie fishing up there, I’m afraid.”

  “I was next door in Wyoming a couple of weeks ago,” she commented, watching him cast the jig toward shore. “Good trout fishing there.”

  “Yes.” He glanced at her. “Vacation or work?”

  “Vacation,” she answered, wishing she hadn’t brought up Wyoming. It reminded her of Riley, and she was supposed to be putting Riley out of her head.

  “Nice country, Wyoming. Where’d you go—Yellowstone? Did you see Old Faithful?”

  “Didn’t quite make it there.”

  “Do you go out by yourself like this all the time?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Usually. It’s a small boat. Not a lot of room for extra passengers.”

  “You must be brave. It’s a dangerous world out there.”

  The sound of his voice echoed in her head, drawing out a memory. A man’s voice, neutral and low. Familiar. “It’s a dangerous world out there. You shouldn’t be driving all by yourself. Anything could happen to you.”

  Blood rushed loudly in her ears, making her feel lightheaded. She gripped the seat of her chair and stared at Ken Lassiter’s back, the horrible truth sliding relentlessly through the fog of first panic.

  Ken Lassiter. Like the Lassiter Oil station where a mysterious man warned her not to travel alone, then punished her for not taking his advice.

  She fought to remember what the man had looked like, desperate to convince herself that everything unfolding before her now was just some crazy coincidence. But her fishing client was the right height, the right build, and as far as she could remember, the right coloring. Today, just as he had that day at the gas station, he wore a baseball cap low over his forehead.

  Just then, he lifted the spinning rod, giving her a close-up view of his left hand. A pale band of skin circled his pinky finger between the second and third knuckles, contrasting sharply with the rest of the tanned skin of his hand.

  It was him. That’s where the onyx ring went, the one he’d been wearing the day he’d attacked her.

  In the back of her mind, a terrified voice was shrieking with panic, trying to drown out her attempts at logical thought. She beat it back with ruthless determination, taking advantage of the man’s distraction to gather her wits.

  She mentally raced through her options, not liking any of them. If this man was the killer, anything she did out of the ordinary, like ending their fishing trip abruptly, might spur him into action sooner. Trying to subdue him alone wasn’t smart, either. He outweighed her by a lot, and there would be little room to maneuver on the boat to seek any sort of advantage.

  And she didn’t know how long she had before he decided to make his move. She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t made it already.

  “Why don’t we try another spot?” she suggested. “Maybe we’ll have more luck there.” She tried to keep the fear from her voice but wasn’t sure she was succeeding.

  “Let’s stick here a little longer,” he said calmly.

  Hannah darted her gaze around the boat until she spotted her open tackle box. Beneath the upper trays, she had a nice big fillet knife stored, but getting to it would cause too much of a clamor and might draw his attention. However, if she could get to her jacket, which she’d shed when the temperature had risen with full sun-up, she could sneak out the sturdy pocketknife she always carried when she fished.

  She stepped lightly to the middle of the boat and picked up the jacket, slipping it on.

  Her movement caught Ken’s attention. “Cold?”

  “Just a little. The breeze has kicked up a bit.” She snugged the jacket around her, sticking her hands in her pockets. She palmed the pocketknife, trying not to notice how small it felt.

  If she could get him out of this secluded cove, she could track down Jake or Gabe at one of their favorite bass spots, she realized as the small comfort of the knife helped clear her mind a little. Both of her brothers were on the lake with fishing clients this morning. If she could reach one of them, she’d be safe. Then she could set the local cops on Ken Lassiter.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to head for another spot?” she asked again.

  “Very.” Lassiter turned around to look at her. “I have to say, Hannah Cooper, you’re a hard woman to kill.”

  A CHICKASAW COUNTY SHERIFF’S cruiser sat in the parking lot of the Cooper Cove Bait Shop when Riley pulled in, his rental car kicking up gravel as he skidded to a stop. He rushed past the empty cruiser and entered the bait shop.

  At the front, an older couple and a uniformed deputy turned to look at him.

  “I’m Riley Patterson,” he announced. “You’re Aaron?”

  The dark-haired deputy nodded. “These are my parents, Beth and Mike. We’ve tried calling my brothers on the lake, but they usually forward their calls to voicemail when they’re fishing with clients. I was about to grab a boat and head out myself.”

  “Is that man really here?” the woman asked. Riley gave her a closer look, his heart clutching as he saw how much she looked like her daughter.

  “Yes, ma’am. But we’re going to stop him.”

  “I’m going with you,” the older man said.

  “No, Dad, you need to stay here with Mom.” Aaron didn’t say the rest of what he was clearly thinking. If Kyle Layton managed to kill Hannah, he might come back to the bait shop to tie up the rest of his loose ends.

  “You’re right,” Mr. Cooper agreed, fear and rage battling it out in his expression.

  “My boat’s here.” Aaron’s terse, impatient voice drew Riley’s attention back to the deputy. “You coming?”

  Aaron led him on a weaving race through a maze of narrow docks to a mid-sized powerboat near the end of one of the piers. He jumped in, and Riley followed, settling into the passenger seat. He pulled the Ruger from his holster and checked the clip. He had a second clip in his jacket pocket.

  He hoped he wouldn’t need either.

  “Her phone’s set to go automatically to voicemail,” Aaron called over the roar of the outboard motor. “But I think I know where she’d have started fishing.”

  Assuming Kyle Layton let her get that far before making his move, Riley thought grimly.

  “Hey!” Aaron suddenly started waving wildly at another boat. Riley followed the direction of his gaze and saw a bass boat skimming across the lake. The driver apparently spotted Aaron’s signal and throttled down, easing the bass boat across the water until he came up beside Aaron’s boat.

  A tall man in his early thirties sat behind the steering wheel, a quizzical expression on his face. Another brother, Riley rea
lized, seeing the resemblance to Hannah.

  “What’re you flagging me down for, doofus?” He nodded to a slightly sunburned man watching curiously from the passenger bench behind him. “I’ve got a client.”

  “Hannah’s in trouble, Jake.”

  Jake’s expression immediately shifted. “Where? What’s happened?”

  “That guy from Wyoming who attacked her—we think he’s with her, posing as a client.”

  Jake scowled. “I saw her about an hour ago, heading toward Papermouth Cove.” He looked at Riley as if noticing him for the first time. “Who’re you?”

  “The cowboy,” Aaron answered for him, throttling up the motor. “Let’s go!” he called back to his brother.

  The other boat kept pace with them as they flew east, snippets of Jake’s explanation to his passenger rising over the roar of the motors and the wind. Apparently, even the client knew about Hannah and her Wyoming ordeal. Small towns were small towns, whether Wyoming or Alabama.

  “We’re close,” Aaron told him. “Just around that bend.”

  Riley just prayed they’d be in time.

  “SO, I WAS RIGHT.” Hannah was surprised by how calm she felt, now that the moment of confrontation had arrived. Maybe it was the feel of the knife in her right hand. She whispered a silent prayer of thanks that she’d been conscientious about keeping the hinge oiled; the blade had easily and silently opened for her with just a flick of her fingers.

  “I certainly gave you enough clues,” the man who called himself Ken Lassiter said with a soft chuckle. He reached into the tackle box beside him and pulled out a yellow, nylon fish stringer.

  Hannah eyed his hands as he started wrapping the end of the stringer around one hand. One loop. Two.

  “No blitz attack?” she asked aloud. “No face full of pepper spray?”

  He shook his head. “You’d be expecting that. I like to keep an element of surprise.”