The Third Secret

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Good motivation for murder.

  “If that’s the case, then American security is at risk,” Rick said quietly, watching a whitecap out on the ocean. He was reminded again of breakfast on Segura’s boat. And the collection of shot glasses the man had behind his bar. There’d been a hundred of them. At least.

  One of them had stood out.

  It had the same logo as the half-used book of matches Brady had left for him. It was from The Resting Place.

  Brady wanted Rick to find something.

  He was getting close.

  And stakes had never been higher.

  “Still doesn’t explain Cook’s murder,” Rick said now. “Unless, like we’ve said, he stumbled on some information about me. Or about someone looking for me.”

  The other alternative was that Paul Wagner had killed him. Seemed like years, instead of two days, since he’d spoken with his attorney. Erin might know by now that Wagner murdered Charles Cook. Or that he didn’t.

  “We’re agreed that I’m the operative on this one, then,” Rick said, forcing his mind away from anything that didn’t serve the job at hand. “Yes.”

  “Fine. But I need a favor.”

  “You name it, I’ll make it happen.”

  “You were planning to be in Michigan tonight to meet me. I still need you to go there. There’s a woman who I want you to protect. Name’s Erin Morgan. She’s an attorney. My attorney. In Temple. Her office was broken into and my file was stolen.”

  “I’ll find her.”

  “And there’s Steve.”

  Sarge was the only one who knew the complete truth about Steve. He was the one who’d arranged it all. “Someone was watching him. If they found Rick, they probably know about Steve. He’s at Lakeside Family Care in Ludington. Don’t let anything happen to him. Or to Erin. No matter what.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course. And, Rick?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful, son. It’s just you and me now.”

  “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  Despite everything that had been going on—Caylee’s troubles, Patricia’s illness, the break-in, Kelly’s visit, meeting Maggie, feeling desire for the first time in years, falling for a man with secrets, living under guard—Erin came home Tuesday evening to a quiet house with only Boots there to greet her. She put food in the cat bowl, scratched the tabby’s chin until, purring, he rolled over for her to rub his belly, too.

  With Halloway in jail, having confessed to the break-in at Erin’s office, the sheriff felt assured that Rick Thomas and not Erin had been the target. So Sheriff Johnson had decided to call off his watch patrol.

  And Erin couldn’t very well tell him that simply by her association with Rick Thomas—a covert government agent, alias Tom Watkins, who was a friend to the cartels and gunrunners and an ex-con—she was in danger. Halloway knew more about what was going on than she and Rick did. Or the sheriff, for that matter. He’d know if she was in danger.

  Was she going to trust a dirty cop?

  Unless, as Halloway claimed, he was working for Washington.

  But then, what did that make Rick?

  Still, if whoever was after Rick had wanted Erin, or wanted her silenced, she’d already be captured. Or dead. Considering that their man, Halloway, had been her watchdog.

  “Be careful what you ask for, Boots, my boy,” she said, feeling the cat’s purr rumble against her fingers. “I question my professional ethics and end up harboring a criminal, lying to the sheriff and letting my client feel my…yes, well, I guess you don’t need to hear that part, do you?”

  Boots gave her a hard stare, as though she’d annoyed him, and Erin realized she’d quit scratching. She moved her fingers slowly along his spine and he closed his eyes. At least there was one man in her life who was straightforward.

  Fixing a cup of tea, Erin made some toast, slathered on peanut butter and settled into a corner of the living room couch, gazing out into the darkness over the lake. There were no lights bobbing on the water tonight. Nothing signaling the presence of humanity.

  She hoped the darkness didn’t have any particular significance, other than that the weather was turning colder and fewer boats were out. She wondered where Rick was. What he was doing. If he was okay. Alive.

  And when she couldn’t find peace sitting there, she moved into her library, curled up in a chair and tried to lose herself in a book. Then she switched on the television she rarely watched. She ran water for a soak in the tub, but couldn’t make herself sit there. She thought about putting on pajamas, but changed into jeans instead. Maybe she’d sleep in them. On the couch. With a kitchen knife close by.

  In her bedroom, she dug in her nightstand for the can of mace one of the Fitzgeralds had given her last Christmas. It was probably still good. She could test it.

  But didn’t want to chance blinding herself. She’d had a run-in with pepper spray during law school—a carefully controlled run-in so that she’d know what it felt like and what to do if anyone ever sprayed her.

  Had Rick found the people he’d been going after? Or had they found him?

  Was he ever coming back?

  She’d called Lakeside that afternoon. Talked to Jill. Steve was fine. He had a new kite. Erin was going to see him the next afternoon.

  And then it hit her. She could make Steve some cookies. Chocolate chip. All boys loved chocolate chip cookies, didn’t they? Steve liked chocolate. That much she knew. Especially brownies. But she didn’t have any mix to make those.

  In the kitchen Erin dropped an egg. And cleaned it up. She overfilled the cup with flour. And when the stick of butter plopped onto the kitchen floor she slid down to the tile, and had to admit she was scared to death.

  Scared for Rick. For Steve. Scared to be alone in her own house. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t live this way. She couldn’t let her mind play with her and—

  What was that?

  Stiffening, Erin turned her head, listening. Something had…what? She couldn’t be sure. But there’d been a sound. The wind blowing a branch against the house?

  Boots jumping up on his cat tree?

  No. He was right in front of her. Snoozing on his chair at the dining room table.

  She was losing it. Erin stood, butter in hand, then bent with a paper towel to wipe up the greasy mess she’d made. Dropping the bundle in the trash, she walked into the living room. She would not be held hostage by her own mind. Period.

  There was no one in her house. No one out to get her. She checked the living room and then marched down the hall, just to prove her point. She made it past the library, the spare bedroom and then stopped. There. That was it. The bathroom fan was on.

  To camouflage the sound of…what? A burglar peeing?

  She was taking ridiculous to a new level. Shaking her head, Erin reached in to turn off the fan she’d obviously left on when she’d run her bath.

  Not that she remembered turning it on. She generally only used the fan when she showered. But…

  The switch was just beyond the tip of her finger. She leaned in.

  Someone grabbed Erin’s wrist. A big male hand.

  She screamed. Went weak. Couldn’t breathe.

  And then it hit her.

  Rick was back.

  He didn’t want to be seen. Or heard. She…

  Her thoughts flew and then swam as she was pulled into the dark, windowless room.

  “Don’t say a word.”

  The rough whisper told her one thing.

  Her captor was not Rick.

  33

  Rick wasn’t due to work for Segura until Wednesday night. That gave him twenty-four hours to find a government mole and put an end to the nightmare his life had become.

  The gunrunner had plans for Rick. Just not the ones he’d talked about. They’d be far more painful than the risky job he’d outlined. And more final, too, once Segura realized there was nothing he was going to get from Rick.


  Once he realized Rick was of no use to him.

  So Rick either beat Segura and the mole at his own game, or he died. That pretty much summed things up.

  He might be shot at close range, like Brady. Or sent off a cliff like Saul. If he was lucky. Chances were, his death would be more painful. Involving torture.

  Whatever.

  Didn’t really matter. If he didn’t figure this out, he was going to be dead, anyway.

  All he knew was that a mole in the government had ties to an illegal arms dealer. And thought Rick could somehow prove it. But who was the mole? And what proof did he think Rick had?

  Standing in a dark corner of a hangar at a private airstrip, Rick waited for the pilot he’d hired to finish his preflight check. He was right back where he’d started. Alone with a matchbook.

  Brady, help me out here, man. What do you need me to see? What am I missing?

  There was no answer. The team had gone dark. He had nowhere to go but back to that weekend. The boat was gone. Maria was gone. Brady was gone. All that was left was a little island bar with a friendly bartender, a few outdoor stools and a wall of liquor bottles.

  A bar from which Segura had a souvenir.

  Rick kept seeing that shot glass, one among many. It spoke to him. And he knew better than to ignore the message.

  There was something at the bar that Brady wanted him to find. What, he had no idea. But he had to go there.

  The pilot signaled to Rick that he was ready to leave and Rick boarded the plane.

  A thousand bucks cash, a three-hour flight—each way. Would he find any answers when he got there?

  Her shoulders ached. Erin sat as still as she could, as upright as she could with her hands tied behind her back, in the front seat of the black SUV and still every bump jolted her, wrenching her arms. There had to be a moment when she’d be able to do something. To get the attention of anyone out there on the dark road, watching them drive by.

  They’d left Temple over an hour ago and were heading into the wilderness of upper Michigan, where a body could lie undetected forever and fade quietly away to dust.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  She was used to the silence, which was his response to anything she said. He’d only gagged her long enough to get her into his truck. But her ability to speak didn’t seem to concern him.

  Houghton Lake. Grayling. The towns continued to pass by.

  “Who are you?” she tried again. If she kept talking, she could keep panic at bay. She could breathe. Because breathing was a natural part of talking.

  She was going to die. That seemed quite certain at this point. She prayed it would be quick.

  That she wouldn’t be raped.

  She should have slept with Rick. She was going to die without having shared the ultimate intimacy with him.

  A minor thing like professional ethics hardly seemed to matter as she sped away in the dark.

  She glanced at the man beside her, looking for any weakness, any chance that she could escape. Dressed in beige slacks and a black jacket, he seemed more rock than man.

  He reminded her of someone. She just couldn’t figure out who. It wasn’t so much the military haircut; it was more the way he held his head. Straight. Unbending. His face expressionless.

  Above all, it was the silence.

  The man sat there completely rigid. Uncompromising. Silent.

  Just like Rick had been that first night she’d crawled out of bed at his behest. The night she’d decided to represent him.

  Oh, my God, Rick. What have you gotten me into?

  Rick had expected traffic at The Resting Place, the Bahamian bar, to be minimal, considering the cool October weather, but all the beach stools were occupied when he showed up a little after nine.

  He’d changed into a pair of khakis, a light blue and beige striped, long-sleeved button-down shirt and sandals, rolling up the sleeves of the shirt. He’d left his bag in a locker at the private airstrip where he’d landed and bummed a ride out to the beach with the pilot, who was going to amuse himself until morning.

  Ordering a gin and tonic, Rick leaned against the outside wall of the bar, sipped his drink and watched.

  A woman who might’ve been a hooker chatted up an obviously out-of-his-element older businessman. He was most likely a salesman. Trying for a stab at freedom.

  A stab he was going to regret. Probably before morning. And for the rest of his life.

  Rick had seen the scenario a hundred times. Different man. Same story. Same sorry ending.

  Guys who could handle the traveler’s life didn’t drink so much. Didn’t have that nervous grin or the wild-eyed look.

  There were more bottles behind the bar. Expensive brands that hadn’t been there before. Business was good.

  Stools were new. Different bartender.

  Damn.

  Nothing was coming easy.

  Not easy for Rick, anyway.

  The older man got up, half leaning on the woman who clutched his arm. She was gushing all over him.

  He slid on to the vacated seat, prepared to nurse the second half of his drink. Rick could handle many more of them without feeling a thing, but he was in for a long night. He had to pace himself.

  An hour later, on his second drink, Rick was no closer to finding anything out. He’d had flashes of his time there with Brady.

  A vision of his buddy’s smiling face as he offered a toast. A dark and somber look on the other man’s face as he’d gazed out at the ocean a hundred yards away.

  Rick had taken the expression as a result of the life they lived. Now he wondered how much of that week Brady had spent reliving the death of the little girl. While they’d been lounging around on the boat, soaking up rays and alcohol, had Brady been besieged with images of the child’s face? Had he laughed extra hard, talked louder and more to cover the sound of the young girl’s cries or, worse, screams, raging through his head?

  Rick knew how it worked. He had hells of his own that were never going to leave.

  “You up for another?” The thirtyish bartender, a tall clean-shaven man with dark hair and an easy manner, stood in front of him.

  Nodding, Rick pushed his glass forward.

  The place had cleared out except for a couple sharing a chair—and kisses—on the other side of the bar.

  “You here for business or pleasure?” the man asked when he set the glass back down. Ron, the tag on his flowered shirt read.

  “Pleasure,” Rick said.

  The man chatted with Rick in between serving drinks to various patrons who came and went and doing the other things that bartenders do. Stocking. Loading the glass-washer. Emptying it.

  “This your first time to the island?” Ron asked as he polished a highball glass.

  “No, been here once before.” Rick sipped. “A few years back.” He’d dissected every crack in the floor behind the bar. Studied the walls. What was Brady telling him? “The bartender, his name was Shots, he still work here?”

  “No, man. He passed.”

  Rick’s entire system went on alert as the man moved to wait on a new arrival.

  The bartender who’d been friendly with him and Brady was dead. Everyone who was associated with that trip was gone. Or going soon?

  “Did you know him?” he asked Ron on the man’s next stop.

  “Shots?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, I knew him. He was a fun guy.”

  “Was he into more than fun?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Guns, maybe. Judging by his name. Booze and guns…”

  “Hell, no, man. Shots was a preacher in his other life. He took this job because he said this was where the people who needed him most hung out. He was here to save souls. Not corrupt them.”

  “His name was Shots and he poured drinks.”

  “I know. I’m not sayin’ he was a conventional guy. But he was pretty solid.”

  “So what happened? How’d he die?” He sound
ed half bored, half curious. And he sipped.

  “The owner of this place, he sometimes got the use of a yacht.”

  Rick tensed. Another yacht.

  “So this one day he couldn’t go, and offered it to Shots. He was only out about an hour when the thing exploded, man. Bad shit. Body parts…well, you don’t need me going any further with that.” He shook his head. “Ironic, too. The name of the yacht—The One That Got Away. Only Shots didn’t.” Not another yacht. The same yacht.

  A regular user of that yacht owned the bar Brady’s matchbook had come from. Segura had a shot glass from the same bar.

  “He’s actually the reason I’m working here.”

  “Who? The owner?”

  Ron leaned his forearm on the bar. “No, man, Shots. I did a tour in the Middle East. It messed me up. After I got out, I came down here and tried to forget everything except sun, sex, booze and drugs.”

  It was a choice Rick could understand all too well. He’d been tempted to make it himself. More than once.

  “Shots started talking to me. Not preaching. Hell, I never knew he was a minister until after he was killed. He just poured drinks and invited me back. Night after night. He gave me a place where I felt like I belonged. Helped me reconnect with humanity. You ever hear of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs? Once you get past food and a bed to sleep in, you get to the next level. Love and belonging.”

  “Shots told you all this?”

  “Eventually. Anyway, I started hanging around more. I’d tended bar before my tour and when the summer season hit, I helped out a time or two. Another guy quit, and Shots put in a word for me with the owner.”

  “He live around here?” Rick asked casually. Give him to me, man. I’m running out of time.

  “No, Pop doesn’t live anywhere, near as I can tell. He’s some head honcho military guy into classified stuff. But he’s been good to me. Career military. He completely gets what combat does to a guy. Didn’t blink an eye at having me running his place, even though I have occasional bouts of PTSD—you know, post-traumatic stress.”

  Rick barely heard the man’s words. He was hot. And cold. Stone-cold. Every muscle, every nerve, stiffened to the point of pain. Pop. Maria’s abusive client—the man Brady had been after—she’d called him Pop.