by Alison Kent
Then came the fifth time, the last time, the one that set him on a path to settle what he thought was an uneven score. She shouldn't have been surprised to find that a man would think of sex as a scale for weighing a friendship. Not when she'd known men who'd used it as a weapon, others who'd thought of it as a game.
But Ed had surprised her. His bitterness, his rage. His ridiculously misdirected sense of entitlement, which she'd thought all this time was simply Ed the control freak demanding his right to be in charge. Instead, she'd been seeing hints of Ed the psychopath.
She couldn't believe the lengths he'd reached to get back at her. He was the one who had whisked away the three missing girls. They were pawns, disposable, the first step in his plan. He'd known she would worry—over what had happened to them, over the possible leak in her network.
He'd counted on that worry. He'd wanted her on edge. Her emotional state guaranteed she'd be suspicious of Holden when the attorney came snooping around. Ed had been responsible for that, too. Dredging up enough of Holden's past to shake him. Sending him in her direction, looking for clues. Making sure their paths crossed repeatedly.
It was all a setup. A simple case of a man scorned. He had used her cause to ruin her life, claiming her focus on her cause had been the ruin of his. It was a revenge he found fitting but a full circle she found made little sense. She had tired herself out and failed miserably trying to get from there to here as he had.
She leaned against the rubble where he'd tied the ropes that bound her midsection, pulled her knees to her chest, and wondered when she'd quit crying, only realizing it now because she had no more tears. She had never in her life been this exhausted, and wondered if she looked as beaten up, beaten down as Holden.
On the opposite wall, he stirred. "You thought it was me, didn't you? That I'd discovered your network. That I'd taken back the girls."
She did not want to have this conversation. She did not want to think about Ed killing the girls, dumping their bodies, planning all this time to blame her and implicate Holden. What type of wool had he pulled over her eyes to blind her? God, but she'd been such a fool!
She answered Holden's question with a question. "What network?"
"The one Dr. Hill told me about," Holden said, and tried to sit straighter, groaning, grimacing, drawing a breath in sharply. "I knew you had one. That you were taking the girls out of Earnestine. I just never could figure out how you got in, or how they knew to find you."
Tears welling again, Neva glanced toward the mouth of the cave through which Edward Bronson Hill, a man she'd called friend, a man who'd been an associate, a man whose bed she'd once shared, had left. He had an afternoon house call to make, he'd told them. No doubt part of his elaborate alibi before he returned to do them in. At least his absence gave her time to think, to figure a way out.
Or it would if Holden would stop talking. "I don't know why you thought I would kill those girls," he said. "I've never tried to do anything but give them the best lives they could have. That's what I was brought to Earnestine to do."
She rolled her eyes at that. "I never thought you had anything to do with the leak. If you'd found proof of what I was doing, you would have rubbed it in my face."
He smiled weakly. "You're right. I would have."
She looked over, studied the man slumped across from her, seeing his vulnerability for the very first time and aching. Whatever he'd done, he didn't deserve this. Neither of them did. "I know why Ed hates me," she said. "What I don't get is what he has over you."
He squirmed to get comfortable, his face twisting. "It's a long story."
"We all have them, Holden," she said softly. "Why don't you tell me about it? Maybe talking will keep your mind off things."
"There's really not much to tell," he said, settling back as much as was possible. "I feared my past had come back to consume me. But it hadn't. It was Dr. Hill exploiting what he'd found out."
Neva glanced over and frowned. "I don't understand."
"My parents were missionaries. Did you know that?" He tilted his head to one side and considered her. "Did your boyfriend tell you?"
"Mick?" God, where was Mick? Why hadn't she told him again that she loved him? "He hasn't said anything to me about your family."
"He knew." Holden closed his eyes. "Not that it would be hard to discover. The newspaper clippings are archived. It was quite the sensational case. Two of the Lord's flock snuffed out on his altar. Their bodies discovered by their son."
"You?" she asked, stretching her legs, her shoulders aching from holding her arms behind her, her nose itching from breathing in the dry dust.
"Yes. Though that wasn't exactly the truth. I didn't discover them." He paused; she watched his chest rise and fall, watched him struggle to breathe, to cough without causing himself pain. "I was there when they were killed."
Time stopped. Her eyes widened. "You witnessed their murder?"
He shook his head, the heels of his Italian leather shoes scraping over the hard-packed ground as he shoved his lower body up against the wall. "I caused their murder. In fact, I helped plan their murder."
Her gasp echoed in the small dim cavern. "What?"
"It was a difficult way to grow up, trying to meet their expectations. I needed a chart. A to-do and a to-don't list." Holden's tone was wry. "Especially since what was right and what was wrong seemed to depend on what they'd discovered during a particular day's studies."
"That must have been frustrating."
"Frustrating I could have lived with. This was worse. Waking up each day afraid to step foot out of bed. More afraid not to. Uncertain whether the clothes I put on were plain enough, whether I should have added a tie. Whether a T-shirt and jeans were appropriate or vulgar. Not knowing if I should eat breakfast or fast."
"This was their idea of faith?"
He nodded. "Faith that an outsider would have seen right through. But I didn't know anything else. I was educated in the mission's school and only allowed to socialize with other members of the congregation. Which I did. At least until I was older and they hired me out to work as a stock boy for one of the elders. He ran a small grocery."
"And you finally saw the light."
"In a matter of speaking," he admitted. "Most of my co-workers were also part of the flock. It just so happened that I became fast friends with the one who wasn't. Ronnie was Mr. Robinson's nephew. His parents had been killed and the Robinsons took him in. Our favorite pastime quickly became plotting the downfall of the church."
He tried to laugh but coughed, a racking sound that made Neva wonder about damage to his ribs and his lungs. "Holden, if it hurts to breathe, don't talk. It's not that important that I know. I'd rather you be comfortable," she said, offering what little bit of solace she could.
"It doesn't matter," he said, a verbal dismissal of her concern before going on. "Nothing matters any longer. In fact, nothing has mattered for a very long time. Not since the night Ronnie decided to kill two birds with one stone. You see, if my parents were out of the way, there would be little holding the mission together. And I would be free."
A chill pierced her at the base of her throat and slid like ice through her body. "He killed them."
"He slit their throats while they were kneeling in prayer in front of the altar. The blood ... It was everywhere. I don't think I screamed. Or cried. I couldn't." He coughed again, groaned again, unable to work into a comfortable position. "I'd hated them both for years. I'd dreamed of killing them. It was like watching my fantasy."
He paused then, stayed silent so long Neva heard the cave echo with his raspy breath. But then he shuddered, as if brought back to the present by his own thoughts. "I could've saved them. If I'd opened my mouth. If I'd warned them. I didn't. I wanted them to die. And I was an accessory because I'd stood by and watched and done nothing. Nothing."
What he'd lived with was a horror as bad as what she carried with her. What Candy tried to forget. What Jeanne never would. Yet this was differe
nt. Candy and Jeanne and all the girls Neva had known were the innocents, the victims, the prey of this sort of evil.
Holden was the evil. A choking ball of emotion—fear? revulsion?—rose in Neva's throat. She wanted out of here, to wash her hands, to breathe fresh air. To never again see this man's face. "What I don't get is why you would work for Earnestine Township. Why you would marry Liberty. Why you wouldn't put anything to do with religion behind you. With your history?" She shook her head. "It doesn't make any sense that you would be a First Amendment advocate."
"A penance, perhaps? A making of amends?" He rocked his head back and forth, closed his eyes. "I don't know. What I do know is that for over a year now, I've been threatened with exposure. I let the killer get away. I told the police I didn't know what happened. I didn't want anyone to know that I'd sat back and let Ronnie do what he'd done. That I didn't lift a finger to stop him. That I'd been a part of it."
He faltered, struggled to breathe. "Liberty's parents lived in San Francisco when my parents died. I thought the notes were from them."
"Notes?"
"The threats. To expose me."
"So if you married Liberty—"
"They'd have to leave me alone. Harming me would be harming their daughter."
God, she was so confused! "But if they were members of Straight's church, why would they want to hurt you?"
"They didn't." At the sound of Ed's voice, Neva turned. He met her gaze and moved toward her, loosening the bindings securing her. "The notes were from me."
And she'd thought she couldn't hate him any more. "Why would you do that?"
"Because I needed a fall guy for the murders of the girls. I made Wagner nervous and he came after you." Ed bent, untied her feet, leaving only her hands bound at her back. Next he moved to release Holden. "The evidence will make it obvious that he bungled his attempt to put a stop to your efforts. You came after him. The two of you tangled and fought. To the death, of course."
It was like listening to a bumbling cartoon character. She couldn't even believe this was the same man she'd worked with and respected, whose advice she'd so often sought. God, but she had to get away.
What was it Mick had said? The cleanest kill is right between the eyes. Simple and direct. Just like the only option it looked like she was going to have.
She struggled to her feet and took it. "You know, Ed, I never figured you for an idiot. But you're the biggest one I've ever known." Another deep leveling breath, then, "I'm leaving."
Slowly, he stood where he'd finished untying Holden's ropes. "You're not going anywhere, Nevada."
"Oh, but I am. You're not going to get away with this, Ed. You're not accomplishing a thing." Bile rose like lava to boil in her stomach. "Holden's hurt. Since you're not helping him, I'm going for a real doctor. And for the last time," she added, "don't call me Nevada."
She turned her back on him, choking, her stomach heaving, smelling her fear in her sweat. She took her first step, took her second, took a third that seemed like the longest she'd taken in her life.
"Nevada! I'm warning you. I will shoot."
Then shoot! she wanted to scream. But she kept walking. And walking. Even when she heard the unmistakable sound of his gun's slide being cocked, she kept walking, and walking, feeling the warmth of the sunshine now, smelling air that was free of mold and dust, walking, walking . . .
He shot. She ducked, hurled herself to the ground.
She waited, felt nothing, no pain. No pain. Rolling to her side, she looked back. Ed stood staring at his gun, Holden lying at his feet, blood pooling on the ground from the gaping hole in his chest.
Dear Lord! Oh God! "You shot him! Ed! My God! What are you doing?"
Ed didn't move. He continued to stare, finally raising his glazed eyes to meet hers. "The bullet was meant for you, Nevada. I told you. I'm not going to let you go. And now you can add Wagner's blood to all of that already on your hands. I don't know why he thought he could save you."
He raised the gun. She tucked her body into a ball. Ed took a step toward her. She heard his footsteps. She couldn't move. Couldn't get up. She was going to die and she couldn't even swallow. And then she heard a thudding sort of ping.
Ed stopped, startled, a red circle appearing between his eyes, blood dripping down his face. He staggered a step in reverse then fell back. She screamed, scrambling backwards, sobbing as she got to her feet. And then she turned because she knew what had happened. She knew Mick was there.
She only had to wait a few minutes before she saw him in the distance, walking toward her, a monster of a sniper rifle held in his hand. His steps were long and sure, and he rolled from his hips as he moved. A fluid motion, graceful and lithe. She wanted to run toward him, but stayed where she was in the mouth of the cave, watching, waiting.
It took him forever, but she couldn't even mind. All she could do was watch his body in action. His broad shoulders, his chest, his powerful arms and legs. The sun glinted off his glasses. When he drew closer, she saw that his mouth was grim. And then he was there, holding her, hugging her, letting her sob against his chest as she asked, "How did you find me?"
He spun her around, cut the ropes from her wrists. "I called to make sure you got home. Candy told me Ed had picked you up hours ago. That you were supposed to stop by the market. She called there. No one had seen you."
His hands shook as he pulled her free and pocketed his knife, turning her and drawing her near. "The sheriff's secretary told her you left with Ed. Then Ed showed up for his afternoon house call. I caught him while he was there. And followed him here."
What? Followed Ed? "From New Mexico?"
He shook his head. "1 choppered in. Picked up my Rover from the house my partner rented. It's got a lot of yard for that fucking mutt of mine to roam."
She cried. She couldn't help it. "And Liberty's there?"
"She is. So's Jase."
"What? Oh, Mick. Oh my god! You found him?"
"Not me. My partner, Rabbit. Harry van Zandt. He took over my assignment in New Mexico. Ran into a bit of a hassle from a guy with a patois and dreadlocks."
Neva gasped. "The guy Liberty mentioned. One of the ones you were hunting?"
"He is. And he's not." Mick reached up, brushed strands of hair from her face, the corner of her mouth. "He and Harry made an exchange. The boy for some information that will get Ezra closer to getting out of the situation he's in."
She couldn't process any of it. All that mattered was that he was here. "Oh, Mick. You're making my head spin."
A brow came up over eyes that brimmed with moisture and were as red as hers. "In a good way, I hope."
God, but she loved this man. "In every possible way."
He hooked an elbow around her neck and brought her with him out of the cave. "Let's get out of here and call the sheriff. You can tell me all about it while we wait."
Seventeen
Five days later
She was the only person Candy knew in Pit Stop who refused to drive a truck. Except for Jeanne Munroe. And unless she was driving Neva's. Which she admitted to doing a lot because she liked parking her own car in the building behind the Barn. It was half garage and half storage shed, where they kept the riding lawn mower and power tools— the sorts of things most people's barns were used for.
Today, Saturday, seemed like a Jaguar kind of day.
The drive from home to town took about twenty minutes. She didn't mind—not that she could've done a thing about it anyway—because it gave her time to think about where she was going and what she'd say when she got there.
Of course, she'd been working on putting the words together for more than a few days, talking them through until they made some sort of sense, wondering if they still would when she finally managed to get them out. Apologies had never come easy. And it was obvious from her debacle with Spencer that she lacked a Toastmasters' communications skills.
Now that she was here, however, pulling into the Munroe's driveway, it was equally obv
ious that she should've scribbled crib notes in her palm. She parked nearer the front of the house than the back.
Her door opened onto the sidewalk cut from the drive in an L to the front steps. The house reminded her a lot of Neva's. Two-story, white frame, heather blue shutters around taupe window casings.
The biggest exterior difference was the porch. The Mun-roe's was little more than a cozy welcoming alcove, too small for a swing or a railing. She smoothed her palms down her skirt, this one knee-length and black linen, fluffed her bangs with her fingertips, checked the bow ties on the vamps of her Bruno Magli pumps.
And then she knocked. And waited. Making sure the hem of her sleeveless white menswear-styled shirt hadn't come untucked. She was squirreled around, looking over her shoulder at her waistband, when the door opened. She whirled back and swallowed hard. "Hello, Sheriff."
Yancey Munroe nodded. "Ms. Roman."
"I was wondering if Spencer was home and if I could see him. If he was. Is." Whatever, gah! She knew he was home. His truck was here. And she'd called his line earlier and hung up when he answered.
The sheriff pushed the door open and invited her in. "He's in his room. It's up the stairs"—he pointed toward the staircase next to the kitchen entrance—"to the left. The second door."
"Thank you," she murmured, holding tight to the shoulder strap of her bag. "I won't be long."
He shook his head, seemingly pleasant. Strangely affable. Maybe even .. . cheerful. "Take your time. I'm just watching a ball game. Jeanne's out picking up a few things."
Candy simply smiled and nodded as she crossed the room with its sofa and matching recliners, its entertainment armoire and dried floral arrangements, all done in oak and heathery shades of peacock and sage. It was a nice home, a comfortable home, exactly the Ail-American sort that fit Spencer.
Climbing the stairs, she glanced briefly at the framed family portraits, mostly of Spencer, and the athletic team portraits, all including Spencer, and thought again of how their backgrounds hadn't kept them from finding one another and connecting as tightly as they had.
