She looked up into the eyes she could barely stand to look away from. The ones she’d let leave because he wanted the world, and she only wanted Crayton…and him. If the times were reversed right now, she’d toss both their suitcases in the back of his truck. Escape to wherever he wanted to go.
He palmed his fingers through his hair and squinted. “What the hell did that mean? Didn’t need my attention. For what? Sometimes, Marcy Bradley, you need to be a little more specific.”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “Could we get back to the case at hand?”
Kennett pecked on the office glass, his hands filled to the brim with food and a tray of drinks, which he deposited on a side table. The sheriff excused himself to go check for incoming faxes. JB retrieved a couple burgers from the sack along with a canned soda and retook his chair, thunking back against the wall with more force than necessary.
Others wouldn’t notice that he practically growled as he bit into the food. Wouldn’t notice the hard sigh as his body released its tension. Wouldn’t notice the flash of sadness in his eyes. She noticed. She noticed more than she had in a long time. She’d hurt him more than she ever realized.
Shaken by the memories, Marcy inched back in her chair.
The sheriff rejoined them empty-handed and grabbed his meal before sitting down behind the desk. “Let’s take a little breather. Been a long day.”
Evans placed a Styrofoam container on the desk in front of her and the two shakes she’d ordered, then took his own food and walked into the adjoining room. Said he needed to check in at home.
She smiled at the heart and flower designs floating around her name on the top of the Styrofoam. Cute. That was a first because Joanie had never been one to be flowery. Nice to know her friend was thinking about her. Marcy sipped her shake and opened the lid of her sandwich box.
The smell of beef, tomatoes, lettuce, and onion triggered her stomach as she reached in for the usual, white-wrapped burger. Her fingers touched a folded piece of paper underneath the sandwich. A note…how nice. Burger in one hand, Marcy was poised to take a bite of the soft bun and makings as she unfolded the note.
She choked on her gasp of inhaled shock. Dropped her food as she stood. Backed away from the terrifying words.
…
JB shot out of his chair, engulfing Marcy in his arms as she turned to him. A quick glance showed a paper on the desk next to her food. Kennett reached over and picked up the note.
“Don’t touch it.” JB grabbed the rookie’s arm.
Kennett jerked his head in a self-imposed sigh and grimace as he released the sheet of paper. “Sorry, man. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Nobody else touch it.” The sheriff motioned to close the door, then nodded to Kennett. “Read what it says.”
“Dear Ms. Lucky, three times is usually the charm. You must have nine lives.” Kennett glanced at Sheriff Davis.
JB felt Marcy tremble in his arms, and he pulled her closer to his chest, one hand rubbing circles on her back. The other pressed into her hair as he held her close. This wasn’t a time to think in terms of boundaries in their relationship. This was about keeping her calm.
“Read the rest,” he said. She deserved to know exactly what they were up against.
Kennett nodded. “…must have nine lives. If you keep being so lucky, I’ll finish off your hot-shot ex-husband instead. Your choice. Your life? Or, his?”
The four men exchanged looks of definable anger. Sheriff Davis motioned for Evans and Kennett to collect the food bags from Joanie’s as evidence.
When JB looked down at Marcy, he’d never seen her so quiet, so pale. He seemed to be the only thing holding her up. After leading her to the low, leather sofa at the back of the sheriff’s office, he sat with her cuddled in his arms. Minutes on minutes passed. The police work wrapped up, and the sheriff closed the door behind himself and the officers as they departed the room.
“Someone really hates me, don’t they?” she said.
“Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
JB felt himself swaying back and forth from side to side, hoping Marcy would walk through her shock and come out stronger. His mind raced with whys, what-ifs, whens, and hows—as well as plans for survival. He never let himself imagine otherwise when put into a life-or-death situation. Attacks called for justice. Attacks against his ex-wife called for survival. Whoever sent the message would feel JB’s attack mode before this ended.
“What have I done?” she whispered.
“Not a thing.” He kissed the top of her head. “Someone sick enough to write that note doesn’t need you to have done one single thing. Sick people imagine what they want. Wreak havoc from there.”
She sat, cupping his face in her hand. “If you’d been out there on the road by yourself today, and your brakes went out, you’d have gone over the edge. Crashed into the water.”
“Nope. Might have gone over the edge, but you know me…” Trying to lighten the mood, he poked the side of his head with his finger in an always-thinking motion. “Halfway down, I’d have opened the door and did a half-pike into the water. Swam across the lake and back again, then grabbed a couple of fish and backstroked to shore.”
Marcy fake-smiled, and a smidge of color returned to her cheeks. “What kind of fish?”
Good. She was trying. He also knew she hated the water. Ever since the day their fishing boat capsized, and he’d jumped in to save her. Yeah, she’d gone in the water after that, but only if he was around.
“Bass. Super-big bass.” He widened his arms in exaggeration. “Of course, I’d make you clean them.”
She scrunched her nose and sweet-grimaced.
“Then I’d hose you down to get the scales and gunk off before we…” He tweaked her nose as visions of their hot afternoon exploits from the past flooded his mind. From her smile, she remembered, too, “…jumped in the lake to cool off before we…”
Marcy pressed her fingers against his lips. “Before we fried up those fish in a cast-iron skillet so big and heavy only you could lift it from the stove. And, you’d make hushpuppies and fried potatoes and your special wash-it-down concoction.”
He’d have rather talked about what came between the cooling off and the frying fish. But that was a long time ago. Before signatures on a divorce decree changed their status. He forced a grin to keep the conversation light, keep her calm. “That brew tasted like medicine, but it got the job done, didn’t it?”
“Got the job done.”
They shared a small, breathy laugh that spoke volumes. He squeezed her close for a moment, kissing her forehead. “To the good times we had, sugar.”
“To the good times.” She slid down on the sofa next to him and rested her head in his lap. Before long, her breathing slowed, her body eased, and her eyelashes fluttered, fighting sleep.
It had been a long, exhausting day. They all needed some rest. Thankfully, she could get some while everyone else worked through the evidence.
He stroked her hair as he did a chronological lineup of the day. Joanie should have a clue about who might have been around the food. Sheriff Davis would do his investigation. JB’d do his.
Marcy’s breathing calmed into sleep, and her body relaxed against him. A shudder raced through his mind and his shoulders, and he clenched his jaw. Today, he’d almost lost her again. True, she wasn’t his to lose anymore, but that didn’t matter. He’d watch out for her just like he had in school. He rested his head back against the sofa. Much as he needed to check on what was happening outside the room, he’d stay with her in case she needed him.
The door opened with a click, slow and gentle. Sheriff Davis pushed it open further, and in stepped Marcy’s mama. She looked tired. Didn’t matter. Two of her girls were in danger, and no one would be able to keep her away. Sadie nodded, then tilted her head to look at her sleeping daughter. Slipping over to the sofa, she motioned she’d take JB’s place.
When he shook his head, she pointed to the door. The sh
eriff waved him over, indicating that he needed to talk. JB slowly eased out from under Marcy as Sadie moved in. His ex-wife barely stirred, though she clutched at his hand as he let go. Her mama took hold of the grasping fingers.
Marcy’s stepfather Truman entered the room and sat in the chair by the desk. He crossed his arms and leaned the chair back against the wall, mouthing his silent intent to watch out for the two women. JB nodded a thank you and headed to the door, then stopped in front of Truman, making sure to keep his body between him and the women.
Truman and him had never worked a case together for the Bureau, but they each knew what the other did. Where they went. What went down. They’d formed an unspoken bond as special agents in the field, never mind the family connection.
JB pulled a leather case from his pocket, flipped it open, and rubbed his thumb across the FBI shield he’d worn for the past few years. There was a time he thought that shield and what it meant was the world. The law was his job. Just not this time.
Closing the case, he held it out to Truman. “I know I’ve already given my resignation to Wilson, but I wouldn’t want to tarnish the badge by even keeping it in my pocket. What needs to be done in the next few days may not exactly fall under the letter of the law, ‘cause I plan to do whatever it takes to keep Marcy alive.”
Truman closed his hands around the case. “You sure you want to do this?”
“You’d do the same for Sadie.”
The man clenched his jaw and nodded. “Difference is Sadie’s my wife.”
JB fixed his gaze on the door, kept his voice low. “Just because I signed the divorce papers doesn’t mean I want anything to happen to Marcy. We had some good times. Trouble is we’re like two engines pulling in opposite directions. Ultimately, one of us had to let go before we both burned out.”
He remembered the quiet in the house that last night before she’d set the duffle bag on the front porch. Even then he’d known the end of their marriage was near. Known there was nothing he could do but watch the end play out. Too stubborn to be the one to admit defeat, he’d waited for her to make the final break. One part of him had hoped she wouldn’t. One part had known she would.
“Marcy might have been the one to push me out the door, but in the end, I was the one who let go. Stayed away and let go because…” JB glanced back at the leather case and nodded. “I figure you’ll get my badge where it needs to go if something happens to me.”
“Watch your back out there.” Truman shook his hand.
“JB.” Marcy’s mother called out softly. “Before you go, there’s something I need to—”
“No, Sadie.” Truman shook his head at his wife. “Let it be.”
“But, I told you last night about—”
“I understand, but just let it be.” Truman stuffed JB’s leather and shield in to his pocket.
JB glanced at the two of them, then at Marcy still sleeping quietly on the couch. His core tripped at the beauty of her parted lips, her fluttering eyelashes, her gentle fingers tucked lightly beneath her cheek. How could he ever think any less of her than the day they were married? She’d stayed with him as long as she could. Worrying about when he’d be home from the job, tending the wounds he’d returned with.
Sure, he’d been right to stay away once they’d parted. And he’d go again as soon as there was no more danger to her. He couldn’t be the safe nine-to-five man she longed for, whose biggest excitement was scratching off a lottery ticket. That kind of life would kill him one second at a time. So he’d let go again, leave town, and never come back to Crayton.
She deserved better than him. All these years, he’d wondered if he was the best choice for her. Was he good enough? Had his dad been right that he wasn’t worth the price of a ticket? Gazing at her right now as she slept, he didn’t believe anyone was good enough for her. But he’d do anything within his power to keep her alive.
Anything.
He closed the door behind him as survival mode kicked into gear. Survival for him and Marcy meant using his skills and keeping a clear head. He knew how to stay in control. To do what he’d been trained to do in evaluating a case. In protecting the victim. In taking the criminal down. He had to think of this like every other case he’d ever had. Look for clues and meet the objective.
Only one thing hadn’t been in the manual. How to handle your emotions when someone you cared about was the target.
Chapter Thirteen
JB joined Sheriff Davis and Kennett as they walked out the front door of the police station, each with their own look of determination.
“No one goes in my office,” the sheriff shouted over his shoulder to the patrolman guarding his office doorway. “And I mean. No. One.”
“Where we headed?” JB jogged around to the passenger side of the sheriff’s patrol car. Kennett slid into his own cruiser and shadowed along behind.
Sheriff Davis’ hand rested firmly on the wheel. “Joanie’s. Evans will catch us up with his findings before he heads home.”
“I’ve got a few questions for the restaurant workers myself.” JB had more than a few, and there’d better be answers. His brain shouted for him to respect the position he was in. This wasn’t his case, his turf, or even his town anymore. Technically, he wasn’t even a lawman at the moment. What he needed to do was follow the lead of the man who trained him years ago. “That is, if you don’t mind, sir.”
“Figured as much. Don’t overstep your non-position though.” The sheriff grinned as he pulled to a stop in front of Joanie’s Pizza, Pub, and Pool Hall. “Ever sorry you left town? Joined the FBI?”
“In case you hadn’t heard, I quit the FBI the day Marcy got shot. Turned in my service revolver to the deputy. And just handed my shield to Truman.” He eased out the passenger door before he had to answer the real question. “He’ll get it to the right person if something happens.”
The sheriff nodded. He knew Truman’s connection to the FBI. Then he glanced at the gun holstered on JB’s shoulder. “You got a permit to carry that one?”
“Yep. I’ve got a permit for everything I’m carrying.” Of course, improvisation didn’t need a permit. And he’d learned the art of making do with what you’ve got when your life was in the balance.
As his and the sheriff’s breath fogged in the air, JB surveyed everything along the street, mentally shucking the unnecessary back out into the air. When he first started out, the sheriff had taught him the look-and-discard routine on this same street years ago. The system served him well through his undercover work.
Something was there. Something he was missing. Something to start a trail. What? He drew in a deep breath. Where? He looked again.
Joanie’s sat on the end of the 500 block of Main Street, right next door to a family-owned furniture store and across the street from Dee’s Morning Diner. Not much help there. The diner closed at 2 p.m., but maybe the insurance office on the right held an answer. Used to be a receptionist at the front desk by the window. He’d check them later.
Kennett parked his patrol car and sighted in on the same surroundings.
“Well, what do you men see?” Sheriff Davis donned his hat and rested his hand for a brief moment on the butt of his gun holstered at his waist, an assurance check the man was known for, before heading to the front door of Joanie’s restaurant.
JB’s shoulder-holstered Glock was in plain view today. Putting on a Crayton Police jacket would have been misleading, and he’d left his own jacket in his truck at the impound lot. His backup, a .38 Special, was holstered on his inner, left ankle. Hidden under his jeans on the outside of his right calf was a quick-release knife and holder. “Depends on what the workers say?”
The rookie nodded, following behind the sheriff and JB as they entered Joanie’s. Evans met them at the rear of the restaurant, his expression serious and frustrated. The report covered the happenings—food cooked, food bagged, food waiting by register. There had to be more.
Sheriff Davis pulled out his pen and notepad. “E
vans. Kennett. One of you check the alley trash cans.”
“Trash cans?” the deputy asked.
“See if our artist dumped the markers in the trash on his way out.” The sheriff glared at the men. “And, one of you get out front. See what you can find out from the customers.”
The two policemen lowered their eyes and scattered in opposite directions.
JB forced a casual tone to his voice. “Evans seems the same as before I left.”
Sheriff Davis glanced at the swinging doorway. “Yep. Still questions anything he hasn’t thought of. Otherwise, he’s one hell of a good deputy. Good man, too.”
“What about Kennett? How long’s he been here?” JB remembered to slip into his conversational stance.
“Rookie’s been here close to a year.”
“Appears to have a good grasp on the community.”
“Came with good references from a sheriff up in Illinois.”
“Why’d he choose here?”
The sheriff shook his head. “Smooth, JB. But you asked one question too many to be passing time.”
JB didn’t care if he was smooth or not. Anybody could be focused on Marcy. “I’m not ruling anyone out I don’t know.”
“It’s not one of my men.” Davis’s tone held authority, conviction, and understanding. “Trust me. I’d know.”
JB scanned the restaurant as the lowering sun glared through from the outside. “Sorry. Next thing you know, I’ll be interrogating dust specks in the air.”
Starting at the front door and working his sight-field around section-by-section, he visually and mentally scrutinized everything. Top to bottom, bottom to top, stool to stool, table to table, booth to booth. He tensed. Coincidences topped the list of things he didn’t like. Convenient details were number two.
Why was the guy in the second booth still in town? Why here? Was he really having pie? Or, rather, conveniently nursing a cup of coffee while he pushed uneaten pieces of crust around a plate?
JB made no pretense of friendliness as he walked to the booth. “Who are you?”
Risk of a Lifetime Page 11
