Chance of a Lifetime

by Jodi Thomas

  “You know,” Rick said, looking up from his desk for the tenth time, “it’s hard to concentrate with you always moving and mumbling. Not that I’m complaining about the way you move. It’s just hard to think of anything else, that’s all. You’ve got the kind of body I spent my adolescence dreaming about.”

  “Why are we here again?” She didn’t bother to look his direction. Watching the town square reminded her of watching an ant bed. It really wasn’t all that interesting, but she couldn’t look away. “Anyone can walk by and see you from here. I can think of a dozen places where a sniper could take you out and vanish before the bullet hit the window.”

  “I told you that I’ve got a couple, Minnie and Eldon Peters, coming in to ask questions about getting a divorce. It’s easy money I can’t afford to turn down. So stop suggesting future ways to kill me and let me do my job.”

  “What kind of money?” She wasn’t really interested, just bored.

  “If I were in a big city like Lubbock, I could probably get three hundred an hour just for talking to them. Here I charge one hundred and fifty for the first visit and pray the check doesn’t bounce. In her phone call, the wife said they want to do a collaborative divorce. That means they agree on how everything is split and I do the paperwork.”

  “You ever do this kind of divorce before?” She sat on the corner of his desk and ignored the way he watched her.

  Rick nodded. “Once, for a couple who didn’t own anything except a car and a dog. He got the Chevy along with the payments and she got a hundred dollars for dog food along with the dog. He paid her in cash and me with a check.”

  Trace smiled. “Let me guess, the check bounced.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not too bright, but I learn. I told this couple I wouldn’t even see them until the check cleared. That was over a week ago. I’ve already spent the money. I have to keep this appointment.”

  She watched the window. “I’ll check them out when they come in. If I don’t see any weapons, I’ll go out in the hall and wait. Fair enough?”

  “Believe me, divorcing couples are more likely to kill each other than the lawyer. Drug dealers are easier to calm down than a man about to lose half of everything or a woman who thinks she’s been wronged.”

  Leaning against the glass, she whispered, “How old is this couple you’re seeing?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve never met them before. Their address was a route number over by Clifton Creek. They initially e-mailed, asking if I’d take the case, and then they mailed in the check. Only talked to the wife once. She didn’t sound young.”

  He stood slowly and walked to her side. Two white heads moved up the front stairs.

  “You think that could be them? They’ve got to be in their seventies.”

  “No way,” Rick whispered from just behind her.

  Five minutes later they made it into Rick’s office. Trace managed to keep a straight face as she said good-bye and headed downstairs. The husband was hard of hearing so Rick would have to yell anything he said. It might prove to be a very interesting hour, but she didn’t plan to stay around.

  On the steps, she realized what a great view of all the small businesses she had. This building would make the perfect place to hang surveillance cameras. It crossed her thoughts that Rick could see any crime committed from the bank to the Blue Moon Diner.

  Or…someone could think he saw something. The robbery of the Blue Moon’s cash drawer crossed her mind.

  A criminal might try to frighten him into keeping quiet. Or better yet, run him out of town. Was there any way that was plausible? It was a long shot, but maybe she’d mention it to Alex the next time she saw the sheriff.

  Trace walked into the bookstore putting possibilities together in her head. Maybe Rick shouldn’t be looking for men he’d defended but for criminals still out there. Someone who did something illegal and thought Rick might have witnessed it. Or thought Rick might defend them. He’d never won a case. They might consider running him out of town before they got caught hoping it would improve their odds if they did have to go to trial. She grinned at the wild angle her thoughts were taking.

  Trace jumped when two middle-aged men greeted her from just behind a cluttered wall of books. One she knew, the bookstore owner named George Hatcher. The other man looked like a homeless person.

  Hatcher introduced her as Rick’s friend, probably because he couldn’t remember her name. He told her the tattered little man at his side was a yet unpublished, but no less grand, mystery writer. “Zack Hunter and I are working on our chapters to read for the writers’ group tonight at the library. We’re founding members of the group.”

  Trace didn’t know anything about a writers’ group, nor did she much care, but she smiled politely. “Sorry to bother you creative gentlemen.”

  “Oh no, miss, no bother,” both insisted.

  “I’ll get you a cup of coffee.” George reached for one worn cup off a rack above a coffeepot. “We were just about to take a break.”

  “Good,” she said. “I have a mystery to discuss with experts like yourselves.” They weren’t much in the way of authorities, but they were locals and might be able to add something to her theory.

  Neither argued with her. After all, Zack was writing a mystery and George had read a thousand, so they qualified as experts. As quickly as she could, she outlined the mystery of Rick’s injuries and asked for their advice. She didn’t really expect anything useful but thought talking to them might help organize her own thoughts.

  Zack pulled out what looked like a new pipe and began trying to fill the bowl. “Well,” he said, drawing out the word to ensure no one tried to cut into his thoughts. “I’d say it has to be the bookstore owner below the lawyer’s office who is our felon. After all, he’s been making a killing with the curious coming in here.”

  “Or better yet,” George piped in, bouncing in his chair like a fourth-grader, “it’s the bookstore ghost who’s been waiting around for years. In fact, I think that would make a fine title for a mystery. The Bookstore Ghost.”

  “A ghost?” Zack frowned.

  “Sure. No one has seen anyone nearby when the crimes happen. A shadow in the alley, maybe, but no other proof. Maybe he died because of a crooked lawyer and haunts around bumping off everyone who passes the bar that he sees.” George’s eyes were twinkling. “Just think about it, a serial ghost killer. Maybe he picked on Matheson because he read his name somewhere. When he runs out of young lawyers, he’ll head for the older ones.”

  Zack shook his head. “What if the killer wants the lawyer dead because he wants his office? No, no, no. He doesn’t just want the office—he has to get to it. He buried his wife in the walls years ago and he’s afraid Rick might remodel.”

  “I like my ghost better. The story has more potential. Never think of a book, Mr. Hunter, think of a series. How many dead wives can you have in walls, but a homicidal lawyer killer, now that has the promise of a series.”

  Zack wasn’t buying it. “No sex in your plot,” he said. “Every big book has sex. Ghosts don’t have any, but a wife killer might. Maybe he caught her with another man? Maybe he kept her body so he could hold her at night? His obsession made him forget to pay the bills and one day he was evicted without having time to take her along. She’s up there”—he glanced at the ceiling—“just waiting for him to come back and get her.”

  George frowned. “You’re creeping me out.”

  “Well, you’re spooking me out.”

  Trace slipped away with them arguing. As she walked back up the stairs, she realized she wasn’t any closer to solving the mystery than she’d been ten minutes ago. Mental note to self: Never ask a writer about reality.

  Rick’s door was closed, but she could hear him talking. He was explaining all that had to be done to get the divorce. If the couple said anything, she didn’t hear them. Maybe they both died of heart attacks when he told them what it cost.

  She walked over to an empty space beside the stairs where
someone had left an old wicker chair in an effort to decorate. It was dusty but comfortable. Trace sat and propped her long legs against the top of the stair railing.

  With a smile, she remembered what Rick had said about her having the build of his dream girl. In her line of work, she usually wore black suits and sometimes a bulletproof vest. No one ever admired her body, or maybe no one had ever been brave enough to comment.

  In the warm hallway, she stopped trying to listen to Rick’s lecture and relaxed. Two weeks ago she’d been on a team heading in to break up a drug ring. She’d been doing her job just as she had for five years. All she’d ever wanted to be was a marshal like her father and grandfather. The Adamses had been U.S. Marshals all the way back to the Wild West days.

  As the team moved in, Trace remembered thinking that the day was brighter than usual. The thought crossed her mind that if something went wrong and she died today, it was a good last day. The team moved from the light into the shadows of an abandoned warehouse.

  Within seconds, something went terribly wrong. Bullets exploded around her as if she were in the middle of a fireworks explosion. Trace held her weapon tightly as she spun in a circle, but she could see no one to aim at. Smoke, yelling, screams filled the morning air. One of the cops fell into her. He’d been shot in the face. Blood was everywhere as he trapped her down with his bulky body.

  For a moment she was paralyzed with indecision. Should she fight to save him or go after the shooters? He was screaming and losing blood so fast she knew he wouldn’t last long, but his body weighed heavy across her shoulders.

  Another officer’s body toppled over them like a pileup of football players on the field. She struggled to move, but the officer’s bleeding arm dripped blood into her face. She couldn’t get free. She couldn’t breathe.

  Then it was over with a sudden explosion. Lightning flashed. Her world went dark.

  The noise had stopped when she came to. People were pulling the bodies off her as they worked hastily to stop the bleeding. A hand helped her up, checked to see if any of the blood she’d been lying in was hers.

  She didn’t know the medic. Had never seen him before. But she saw the relief in his face when he found no wound.

  “You okay, Marshal?” His hands cupped her face as he stared into her eyes.

  Trace nodded. She didn’t feel all right, but no part of her body was hurting with the fire of a bullet.

  The medic sat her down out of the way and covered her shoulders with a blanket. Without a word, he went back to help others. Trace had no idea how long she sat there, maybe ten minutes, maybe two hours. People were moving around her, talking, shouting, running. All she saw was the blood pooling across the floor toward a drain.

  Her captain told her to go with one of the detectives back to the station. He ordered her to clean up, but when she got to the showers, she couldn’t seem to get the blood off. No matter how long she scrubbed it wouldn’t come off. It was in her hair and on her face. It dripped over her body as if the roof were leaking crimson rain.

  One of the cleaning ladies at the station found her passed out with the shower running cold over her. They’d taken her to the hospital. Three days later she checked herself out of the hospital and pulled her bike out of storage. She needed to ride. She needed to outrun the nightmare.

  She’d made it as far south as Kansas City when Denver Sims called. He’d worked a few cases with her in Chicago, and he must have heard she was on leave. He had probably been filled in on how she’d cracked up, because he asked a favor. “Just drop by and make sure the kid is okay,” Denver had said. “It shouldn’t take more than a day or two, and I’ll owe you one, Adams.”

  “Drinks and a steak,” she said.

  “Drinks and a steak,” he agreed, and hung up the phone.

  Trace wasn’t sure why she’d said yes. Maybe because Denver called the twenty-eight-year-old lawyer a kid. She was the same age, but she’d lived a lifetime already and felt older. She also found it interesting that the whole town seemed to care about Rick Matheson. She couldn’t name three people outside the marshal’s office who cared whether she lived or died.

  Her father had been a hero, but he’d been killed in action before he’d had time to take her camping. In truth, all she knew about him was his legend. Since she could remember, she’d wanted to be hard like him. She was the best at what she did. But, for once, the best in that warehouse hadn’t been good enough. If she hadn’t been trapped under the wounded, she would have died in the explosion. All those around her had carried weapons. They’d fired, but they hadn’t stopped the explosion. They’d all died and she’d walked away without a scratch. She told herself she was good at what she did…

  Or she had been. Now she wasn’t sure she could protect one lawyer, but she knew if she didn’t, her mind just might finish the job of splintering in two.

  Finally, Rick’s door opened and Mr. and Mrs. Peters walked out, too lost in their own world to notice Trace.

  Once they were out of sight, Rick handed Trace a square envelope. “Eldon Peters brought this in. He said the lady from the cleaners handed it to him since he was going up. She claimed it must have been dropped in her box by mistake.”

  Trace took the corner of the letter. Rick’s name was printed in black across the front. “You open it?” she said as she looked for any detail, any clue.

  “Yeah. Just like the first note. One word. Leave. I’m betting there’s not a fingerprint on it except the downstairs lady’s, Peters’s, mine, yours.”

  “You’re worried.”

  He shook his head. “After the darts, I’m about ready to climb the clock tower and yell, ‘Bring it on!’ I’m not too happy about having a pen pal, but how much harm can a letter do? I’ll start worrying when he comes at me with a weapon bigger than a garden decoration.”

  She laughed. “If it comes, I’ll be right beside you, Matheson. You know, for a lawyer, you’ve got grit.”

  “Thanks. I just hope none of it leaks out the next time I’m hit.”

  Chapter 26

  FRIDAY NIGHT

  HARMONY LIBRARY

  AT QUARTER TO SEVEN EMILY WATCHED GERALDINE EDISON walk across the street with a plate of cookies and what had to be her next chapter to read to the group stuffed into her huge red purse. Zack Hunter was right behind her and offered to carry the cookies, but Geraldine didn’t look like she quite trusted him.

  The pair reminded Emily of a plus-size Little Red Ridinghood and an aging, slightly hunched-over Big Bad Wolf.

  She tried to keep from laughing as she welcomed them and followed them upstairs where Rick Matheson sat with his legal pad, ready to take notes for Martha Q. A tall, thin woman with black hair stood near the windows as if on guard. Snow White, Emily thought, hoping the seven dwarfs didn’t show up because there wouldn’t be enough chairs.

  “What’s the lawyer doing here?” Sam whispered from just behind Emily. He held his broom at the ready as if it were a weapon. She’d often thought the janitor would consider it a good day if no one came into the library.

  He wasn’t smiling, but then he never smiled, Emily thought, as she whispered back, “He’s taking notes for Martha Q Patterson. They’re good friends. I think he’s staying at her place while she’s gone.”

  “I don’t like it.” Sam, who usually did his best to not get involved with anything except spills in the library, surprised her. “Meetings like this shouldn’t allow drop-ins, and I’m not sure Martha Q should trust him. Just ’cause his name is Matheson don’t make him honest or reliable.”

  Before she could comment, Rick waved at her.

  As she moved toward him, she glanced back to Sam, but as always he’d vanished. “Yes, Rick?”

  The lawyer smiled a grin that was downright adorable. Prince Charming, Emily thought. He was a few years behind her in school, but Emily couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t know who Rick Matheson was.

  “Got any idea how long this meeting will last?” He didn’t look like h
e was looking forward to the evening.

  “The library closes at nine. They have to be finished by then.” Like everyone in town, she’d heard he’d been hurt, but with his jacket on she couldn’t see any bandages. “You all right?”

  He flashed her a not-so-bright smile and shrugged. “Sure. Thanks.”

  Emily tried her best to act relaxed as the others came in, but it was almost seven and she hadn’t heard a word from the town council. They’d never been so late. Something had to be wrong. Maybe she’d have to face budget cuts or, worse, lose her job. Part of her wanted to run as fast as she could over to the town hall and tell them that she had nowhere to go if they closed the library, but that wouldn’t be professional.

  George Hatcher arrived with two closet writers he’d discovered. One was a man in his late forties named Simon Bishop. He had the hint of a British accent and told everyone he wanted to write suspense. The other looked like she might have spent too much time in outer space. She had wild red hair and mismatched socks. Even at first glance Lily Anne Loving had that “phone home” look about her. When Emily asked her what she wrote, she said she was working on a memoir about her motherland before she was abducted and sent to earth.

  Peter was the last to arrive and asked to go first. He passed out one page of poetry he said he’d been working on all week. He rushed around the room with willow-in-the-wind kind of movements.

  George Hatcher told him that poets starve.

  Peter answered that to write poetry is to live. He pulled his pipe from his pocket and held it in one hand as he read. The group was polite. Lily Anne said she loved it. George said it had a nice beat.

  Geraldine agreed with George and passed around the cookies.

  Peter deflated in the chair next to Rick. The lawyer handed back the poem with Grand! written two inches high at the top. Peter nodded his silent thank-you and straightened a bit in the chair.