“I wish Coleman had told us sooner about that wreck fifteen years ago.” The kidnapping and shooting appeared to be Jenkins’s revenge for the death of his wife and girls in an accident that hadn’t been anyone’s fault.
“Well, you were dead-on right.”
Yeah, she had great instincts when it came to other people. So why was finding her father so difficult? And on more than one level. She unwrapped a lemon drop, then popped it in her mouth, the candy tart on her tongue. Her cell phone rang, and she glanced at the ID. “Do you know anyone with a 901 area code?”
“Not off hand,” Dale said.
She answered, putting the phone on speaker. “Martin.”
“Dr. Martin? This is Nick Sinclair. Scott’s brother.”
“Yes?” She should have known giving him her number would prove to be a mistake.
“I know it’s late, but I’d really like to talk to you about my brother tonight.”
“I’m busy right now. And I don’t want to discuss him over the phone.” She checked her watch. Nine-thirty. She never went to bed before midnight, anyway, and this might be an opportunity to get information on Scott. “However, I’ll be home shortly, and I can give you thirty minutes.”
“That’d be great. I won’t stay longer than that, I promise.”
After giving him her address, she hung up and turned to the sheriff. “Can you hang around?”
“Sure. I have a couple of questions for him myself.”
Taylor slipped the phone in her pocket. What could be so urgent to Nick Sinclair that he couldn’t wait until tomorrow? She thought of the poem. Could he have slipped it in her jacket? No, he hadn’t been around for the other “presents.” “What’s your take on the poem? Do you think it’s Scott Sinclair?”
“Possibly. What’s more important is why you think it’s him.”
“I didn’t until I received the black roses. I had no clue who was sending me candy.” In late March, every week a box of Godiva chocolates had been placed on her desk. No one ever saw the gifter, but Taylor figured one of the male students had a crush on her. That happened sometimes with a student and a professor. Then in late April, the black long-stemmed roses appeared.
“Those roses sure fit that strange getup he wears,” Dale said. “What do the kids call it? Goth?”
“Yeah.” Scott always showed up in class wearing a black T-shirt under a black Nike jacket with a hoodie, black jeans, and black tennis shoes. And jet-black hair.
“Those photos, though. They put a different slant on the situation, and now this note really changes it. I’ll bring him in for questioning again.”
The photos had arrived right after the roses. Shots of her shopping, jogging, at the pharmacy, at a ball game, Taylor doing everyday tasks. Just knowing whoever took the pictures lurked that close sent a shiver through her body.
Dale had questioned Scott after the photos arrived, but the only connection to him had been the black roses, and even that had been tenuous. Several stores in the area sold the flowers, and none of the clerks identified Scott. With no concrete evidence, the sheriff couldn’t hold him.
“I can usually size someone up pretty quick, and Scott Sinclair didn’t strike me as dangerous,” Dale said.
“Same with me. He was always somewhat shy, especially in those first classes last fall. Turned beet red when I asked him about the candy and roses. Mumbled something about not knowing what I was talking about. But then he dropped my class.”
The sheriff turned his blinker on and made a right turn. “The thing is, no one saw him at the crime scene. How did he get the note in your coat?”
Taylor had asked herself that same question over and over. And came up blank. “He could’ve changed his look, and there were a lot of volunteers.” She picked at a hangnail. “Maybe it wasn’t him. Could’ve been anyone, even someone at the cleaners.”
“I’ll check that tomorrow. It also could be connected to a past case, even before you came to Newton.” Dale drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You’ve helped to put away a couple of pretty bad guys, and criminals have long memories and bigger grudges.”
“Sometimes I think I should have stayed in my nice, safe classroom.”
“You have a cop’s heart, Taylor.”
She didn’t know about that. Her thoughts chased around in her head. “The paper doesn’t actually have my name on it. Maybe it’s just a sick joke.”
“We’re going to check it out. Until then, you need to be extra careful.”
Taylor intended to do just that. She swayed against her seat belt as the sheriff turned onto Rainey Road and picked up speed.
Dale rested his hand on the armrest between their seats. “Um, how’re you doing? About, you know—”
“Fine.” Taylor clipped the word off, then softened her voice. “I really don’t want to talk about Michael.”
Silence rode with them for a mile before Dale reached and patted her arm. “You were too good for him. You’re young. Give it time.”
She turned and stared though the window at the dimly lit houses whizzing by. Her biological clock ticked off another day every twenty-four hours. Of course, women bore children into their late thirties and early forties now. Which was fortunate, given her history with men. But that history made dreams of having children, the white picket fence, and the fairy-tale ending rather unlikely. The image of little Sarah Coleman in her dad’s arms sent an ache through her chest.
The front tire centered a pothole, jarring her.
“Sorry, didn’t see that.” He cocked his head toward her without taking his eyes off the road. “There’s something I tell my girls. At the right time, God will bring the right man into your life, but you have to wait for his timing.”
“Let it go, Dale.” Like God even cared. “I’m not looking for anyone.”
Nick Sinclair’s face with his day-old beard surfaced in her mind. No. He would be the last person she would ever date. Too good looking, like Michael. Not that he’d be interested in her—she’d just accused his brother of stalking.
They neared her winding driveway, and the car slowed, then turned beside her mailbox. “If you’ll let me out here, I’ll pick up my mail.” Taylor unbuckled her seat belt. She’d rather get her mail now, before he left. After getting out, she poked her head back in the car. “Go ahead, I’ll walk.”
Dale’s brows knit together.
“Climbing back in just isn’t worth the effort,” she said.
“Make the effort. We’ve just been talking about someone stalking you. And, it’s pitch black. Not even a moon.”
“Come on, it’s not like you’re leaving me—you’ll be at the end of the drive. Besides, you won’t be here tomorrow night when I get in from the university.” Taylor tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in her chest. She wished she’d never told him how she hated the dark. She straightened her shoulders. Time to face the monster under the bed. “I need to do this.”
“Sorry.” He shook his head. “You don’t have to get back in the car, though. I’ll just drive slowly ahead of you.”
High winds moaned through the pines in her yard as she fished a penlight from her purse and pointed the beam toward the ground. Taylor retrieved several envelopes from her box, almost losing them in a gust of wind loaded with the threat of rain.
The tiny light flickered then came back to life, cutting a narrow swath through the darkness between her and Dale’s cruiser ahead. Her feet crunched on the loose gravel, the only sound other than the wind. She focused on the bouncing light until she rounded the curve.
Dale parked and climbed out of the cruiser. He jerked his head toward her house. “Why didn’t you leave your porch light on?”
Hadn’t she? Taylor tried to think back to when she left. She remembered now, the bulb had burned out. “I meant to replace the bulb this morning, but I forgot.”
They climbed the steps, and Taylor fumbled in her purse for her key. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Did you for
get Nick Sinclair is dropping by?”
She slapped her head. “It’s been a long day.”
“It wouldn’t matter if he wasn’t coming.” His face cracked into a grin. “I do it all the time for my girls. We get together for dinner, and afterward I go in and check out their apartment. Make sure it’s secure—it’s what dads do.”
The words echoed in her empty heart. For a second, she envied Dale’s daughters. She unlocked the door and let him go ahead of her.
“Where’s the light switch?”
“I’ll get it.” Taylor followed him into the house. A strong odor of Old Spice filled her nose as she flipped on the living room light.
Nothing. Her flashlight cast an eerie circle on the far wall, then flickered and snuffed out. Taylor swallowed a cry and shook the light. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The light twitched on again, a faint shaft in the dark.
“Get out of here.” Dale shoved her toward the door. He barked into his shoulder mic. “I need backup, 302 Rainey Road. Now!”
He unsnapped his holster and pulled his gun. Footsteps scuffed somewhere to her left. Before she pinpointed the direction, a bone crunched and Dale yelled. His gun spit flame, and a deafening roar boomed in the enclosed space. Gunpowder burned her nostrils.
“Dale! Where are you?” Taylor swept the dim light to her left. He lay crumpled on the floor. A man whirled toward her with a pipe in his hand, his face hidden by a hood, a Nike emblem on his jacket. The flashlight flickered off again. No! Stay on!
Darkness pressed in on Taylor. She couldn’t move. Old Spice threatened to smother her.
Air whooshed overhead. She jerked back, kicked, and slammed into soft tissue.
“Umph.”
Taylor dropped to the floor and scrambled for Dale’s gun, her fingers probing under his body. Blood pounded in her temples. The gun wasn’t there. He groaned. Had to get him out. Her breath ragged, she stood and tugged at him.
The pipe sliced the air again. She ducked—not low enough. Pain slammed down the side of her skull then her shoulder. White light pierced her vision, splintering into a thousand points ringed with darkness. Taylor staggered, grabbing air. Strength flowed from her body. She fought the black fog filling her head.
2
Nick checked the GPS again. Another mile to Dr. Martin’s house. She probably thought he was an idiot, but he’d known he’d never be able to sleep unless he told her the truth about the poem. It wasn’t like him to hide something like that.
His headlights picked up a skinny figure in the middle of the road. Nick slammed on his brakes. He had a fleeting impression of a teenage boy, but a hoodie kept him from seeing a face as the kid disappeared into the wooded area on the other side of the road.
Nick shoved the car into park and jerked open his door and jumped out, his whole body shaking. No sign of anyone.
He returned to his car. At least he hadn’t hit the kid, but he could have. His heart still racing, he eased down the road.
The GPS informed him he’d reached his destination at the same time his beams picked up a mailbox. Three-o-two. He turned onto the white slag and crept up the winding drive. His lights swept over a police car.
The house was dark, the front door opened. Nick jerked to a stop and got out of the car. “Dr. Martin? Sheriff Atkins?”
The faint sound of sirens reached his ears as he eased to the porch and climbed the steps.
Someone slammed into him, knocking him to the porch floor.
Nick grabbed at legs as he went down. This time it would be different. This one wasn’t getting away. A fist slammed his ear. A blow to his diaphragm curled him into a ball, the spasm radiating through his chest as air whooshed from his lungs. The assailant wiggled from his grasp. The faint sirens grew louder as Nick hugged his stomach and gasped for air.
Groans from inside the house filtered through his wheezing. Nick struggled to his feet and stumbled through the doorway into the pitch dark room. He coughed, pain racking his chest. His foot kicked something, and it rolled across the wooden floor. A tiny light beam flickered on, illuminating a body crumpled on the floor. Too big to be Taylor.
“Ohh . . .”
Nick grabbed the light and flashed it in the direction of the moan.
Taylor was on her knees, struggling to stand. “Sheriff Atkins. Is he okay?”
Nick flashed the light back to the body and knelt beside it. The sheriff didn’t look good. He yanked his cell from his pocket while he felt for a pulse. Weak. Using his thumb, Nick punched in 911.
“Nine-one-one. What is—”
“I need an ambulance. Sheriff Atkins is hurt.”
“What’s the address?”
His mind blanked out. “I don’t—we’re at Dr. Martin’s house.”
“I need the road and house number.”
Nick flicked the light toward Taylor. She rocked back and forth, her head in her hands. “What’s your address?”
No response. He spied an envelope on the floor and scooped it up. A bill from Macy’s. “Three-o-two Rainey Road.”
“I’m sending an ambulance. Could you give me your name, please?”
Nick breathed tension from his body. “Nicholas Sinclair.”
“Can you tell me what happened, sir?”
“No. I just got here.” Sirens blared up the drive. “Somebody’s here. Cops, I think.” Another spasm radiated from his stomach through his chest, and he pressed his hand below his rib cage. It’d been awhile since he’d been hit hard enough to get the wind knocked out of him, and he’d forgotten how much it hurt.
Car lights swept across the open doorway, and then footsteps pounded up the steps. Beams of light blinded him.
“Newton Sheriff’s Department! Hands behind your head!” The order came from the doorway.
Oh, great. Now he was getting arrested. Nick gripped his phone. “I just called 911. I’m not the—”
“Do what I say! Now!” Metal clanked as the deputy relieved him of his cell and jerked Nick’s hands behind his back.
Another deputy knelt beside Sheriff Atkins.
Nick winced as the cuffs cut into his wrists. “The guy you want is getting away.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Zeke, the sheriff looks bad.”
The deputy prodded Nick. “If you’ve hurt Atkins, I’ll—”
“Zeke, take the cuffs off.” Taylor’s soft voice carried authority. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”
“You don’t know that, Taylor.”
“Is he wearing black?”
Zeke shined a light over Nick. “So, what if he isn’t?”
“The guy who attacked us wore a black Nike jacket with a hood. Obviously, Nick isn’t wearing black. That’s who you’ve handcuffed. Nick Sinclair. You need to be looking for his brother.”
“Taylor, let me take you home.” Christine Nichols’s voice penetrated the fog in Taylor’s brain. Word of the attack had spread through the college town like wildfire, and her friend had come to the hospital immediately.
“I’m not leaving until I know Dale will make it.” Every word pounded against Taylor’s skull. A simple concussion, the doctor had said. It didn’t feel simple, but at least she’d walked away with her life. The sheriff might not be as lucky. She turned her body toward the ER doors, pain shooting through her shoulder this time. Why didn’t the doctors tell them something?
She glanced around the ICU waiting room, where small groups of people waited, their murmurs blending into the background of hospital noises. Deputy Zeke Thornton squatted in front of the sheriff’s wife, patting her hand.
“If you won’t go home, can I get you a cup of coffee or a Coke?” Christine asked.
“Coffee would be great.” Taylor closed her eyes, trying to reconstruct the evening.
“You okay, Dr. Martin?”
Only four words, but no one had to tell her it was Nick Sinclair speaking in that Southern accent of his. Her heart kicked up a notch. She blinked open her eyes. “Call me Taylor. I’m Dr. Ma
rtin to my students. And, yeah, I’ll live. Probably have a headache for a couple of days and my shoulder will probably give me trouble for a while, but at least it isn’t broken. How about you?”
Nick touched his stomach. “Sore, but like you, I’ll live. Mind if I sit down?”
“Please do. I need to thank you anyway—you probably saved both of our lives. It’s a good thing you were stopping by.”
The pupils of his hazel eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Has there been any word on the sheriff?”
She shook her head and immediately grabbed it. But head pain she could deal with. She’d frozen in the dark—she couldn’t deal with that. If Dale didn’t make it, Taylor would never forgive herself. She swallowed down the lump lodged in her throat. “They’re still evaluating him. He hasn’t regained consciousness. But thanks for checking on me.” She rubbed her temple. “I’m repeating myself.”
“Understandable. And thank you for not letting them arrest me.” He smiled, exposing perfect white teeth. “If there’s anything I can do . . .”
“Find your brother.” The words popped out before she could catch them. Asking Nick to help put his brother in jail wasn’t the best way to become friends . . . if she wanted the handsome writer as a friend.
He folded his arms across his chest. “My brother didn’t do this, unless he’s put on a lot of weight.”
“I agree.” Zeke Thornton’s voice chimed in from behind her just as Christine returned with her coffee.
Taylor twisted around. The forty-something deputy adjusted the black cap that covered his receding hairline. “Have you learned something?” she asked. “Do you have a lead on Scott Sinclair?”
“I’m not worried about the Sinclair kid unless he’s part of the burglary ring operating in the county. Your door was jimmied, and we found a pile of your stuff at the back door. Add that to your friend here seeing someone run across the road before he got to your house means two people were involved. I’m thinking we have a robbery gone wrong.”
Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel Page 2
