Soldier flipped through the pages of the file nearest him. “I sent you some more names. People Betsy works with. Anything on those?”
Taylor pulled another folder from his briefcase. “Yeah, but not much. Upstanding citizens for the most part. Pretty boring. Chet Grover, one of the guys in the print shop, has been in and out of rehab. Drinking mostly, some drugs a while back. Nothing recent.”
“I don’t know Chet very well, but he seems like a really nice guy,” Betsy interjected. “I can’t see him doing anything like this.”
Soldier and Taylor both gave Betsy a nod but said nothing. As the brothers knew, looks could be deceiving.
“Betsy,” Soldier ventured, “we’re just checking possibilities, that’s all. We’re not accusing anybody.”
“Well, you hadn’t better be,” she admonished. “I know all these people. None of them are stalkers and none of them are capable of murder, and I’m sure of it.” She paused and softened her tone. “I’m almost certainly positively sure of it. What else have you got?”
Taylor leaned back in his chair. “Holly Miller, Rita Barton, and the rest of the staff—Morgan, Neal, and Martin—are all longtime residents of Port Henry. I’m still checking, but other than one messy divorce, one speeding ticket, and a couple of parking violations, these people all seem to be clean. But who knows? If I keep digging, something may pop yet.”
Soldier turned to Betsy. “We still haven’t talked about neighbors, professional acquaintances, service people such as hair dressers, the mailman, grocery store clerks. The list is virtually endless.”
“It just can’t be one of them. They’re all normal-looking, normal-behaving people who—”
“Betsy,” Soldier interrupted, running his fingers through his hair in frustration at her refusal to accept the truth. “I’m sure the guy who’s doing this is a seven-foot-tall, one-eyed drooling hunchback with a limp, with a tangle of greasy white hair, who holds a bloody butcher knife in one fist while the knuckles of his other hand drag along the ground.”
Taylor looked up. “You didn’t tell me we were looking for my ex-wife’s boyfriend.”
“But,” Soldier continued, ignoring his brother’s acerbic wit, “until there’s a full moon and he emerges from his bone-strewn Dumpster to drag his decaying carcass up the street to accost you again, we’ve got to go with other possibilities.”
Betsy sat back in her chair and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Well, you don’t have to get all sarcastic about it.” She shrugged and tilted her head. “It really could be anybody. I know that. I’ve known that all along. I just didn’t want to believe it.”
“I know,” Soldier said softly.
Taylor left the table to pour a cup of coffee. When he’d settled himself again, he said, “Okay, the note on the dog’s collar was a blank. No prints except for Betsy’s.” He took a sip from his mug. “Something did come up on someone else, though. It could be important, or it could be nothing.”
Both Soldier and Betsy turned their attention to Taylor. His eyes scanned the sheet he held in front of him. Handing the paper to Soldier, he waited while his brother read it.
When Soldier had finished, the brothers exchanged glances. “Yeah,” Soldier said. “I know. I talked to them late last night.”
“Hey, cut it out,” Betsy groused. “Enough with the meaningful looks. What’s going on?”
Soldier slid the paper toward Betsy. With shaking hands, she lifted the report and read it. When she finished, she slid it back toward Soldier, then sat staring at the tips of her fingers.
“So, he’s out. Daddy.”
Soldier nodded.
“And they don’t know where he is except he’d said he wanted to see me.”
Soldier nodded again.
Betsy’s eyes clouded with worry, bringing out Soldier’s every protective instinct. She was a mass of nerves, and this new development had just made things worse. Pushing herself away from the table, she said, “He wouldn’t hurt me. He would never hurt me!”
The back door swung open then, and Loretta walked in, Piddle under one arm, a bag of groceries under the other.
Soldier rose from his chair and took the groceries from her.
“Oh, you’re all up. How cozy,” Loretta observed. “Darling, I thought you’d need some necessities, what with guests and all. Champagne, very dry; caviar, very expensive.” She pushed a lock of flaming hair away from her forehead. At last looking directly at her daughter, she said, “Who wouldn’t hurt you, Elizabeth?”
Betsy blew out a breath, obviously unsure of what her mother’s reaction to the news would be.
“Prepare yourself, Loretta. It’s Daddy. He’s out. The hospital released him three months ago, and Uncle Terry has no idea where he is.”
An hour had passed since Loretta heard the news, flung herself into a fit of hysterics, clutched that mongrel to her bosom and fled out the back door. Taylor had decided to walk the seven blocks over to a farmer’s market and pick up some real groceries, leaving him to watch Betsy as she paced her living room. Her usually gentle eyes were filled with resolve.
“I refuse to be a prisoner in my own house,” she said evenly. Her eyes sparkled with determination, but her body language spoke of her fears: arms crossed, head down, mouth tight. “I refuse to believe my father has had anything to do with any of this. I refuse to listen to one more word about your so-called suspicions.”
“Gosh, Betsy, tell me what you really think,” Soldier chided.
She sent him a withering look, then turned away, allowing him a thoroughly enticing view of her scrumptious butt. Cute enough to eat, he thought.
“Tell me, Betsy,” he said casually. “What kind of a kid were you?”
“Human.” She stared out the front window, her lips pressed together tightly.
“Well, duh,” he drawled, “but what were you like?”
“Shorter.” She sighed and faced him. “Say, did you hear about the race between the two silk worms?”
“No,” he answered warily. “What happened?”
“It resulted in a tie.”
“Oh yuk-yuk. Did you hear the one about the woman who resorted to humor whenever she didn’t want to talk about herself?”
Rolling her eyes, she said, “See the Detective turn into Herr Doktor. Well, analyze this, Freud.” She lifted her nose and turned away from him.
“Come here.” He stood in front of the mantel and stretched his arms out to her.
She looked back over her shoulder, shrugged and moved toward him, but sat in the large wing chair, averting her gaze by staring into the empty fireplace.
For a moment Soldier looked past her to the windows. The panes were old and thick, presenting a distorted view of the world. The irony of that was not lost on him. How had Betsy coped, living here with a haughty beauty queen for a mother and Mr. Science Guy for a father?
“You may not want to be a prisoner in your own home,” he said, “but the reality is, you are, for the time being, at least. We could put you in a safe house, but I thought you’d prefer to be here rather than surrounded by strangers.”
She nodded, relaxing a little. “Yes. I’d rather be here. Thank you.”
Soldier grinned. “How about a word game?”
“What kind of word game?” She eyed him suspiciously.
“The kind where I say a word and you say the first thing that comes into your head.”
“Like psychiatrists do when they think you’re nuts.”
“C’mon,” he urged. “It’ll be fun.”
She nibbled on her lower lip. “So, like, if you were to say the word ‘mother’ and I responded ‘self-involved, ego-maniacal, cold-hearted drama queen,’ then you’d suspect I had issues.”
“You have issues?” He blinked at her like an innocent baby chick.
She gazed up at him and her lips curled in a flirty little smile that about drove him crazy. “Okay,” she purred, “but then we get to switch.”
“That won’t w
ork.” He shook his head for emphasis.
Her brow furrowed. “Why not?”
“Because all my answers would be the same.”
She looked at him askance. “That’s impossible. Like, for instance, what if I said ‘food.’ ”
“Then I’d say ‘sex.’ ”
She made a face. “How totally predictable. What if I said ‘kitchen table.’ ”
“Oh, then I’d have to say ‘sex.’ ”
She blew out a breath. “Um, ‘tour bus’? ”
“ ‘Sex’ again.”
“ ‘Insomnia.’ ”
“ ‘Sex.’ Are you sensing the trend here?”
“ ‘Waterfall’?” Exasperation was clear to hear in her voice.
“ ‘Sex.’ ”
“You . . . are . . . disgusting.”
“Tell me about it,” he drawled. “Sorry to disappoint, ma’am, but I’m a typical male of the species interested in only one thing. I carry with me the proud tradition of having been born with a single track mind. Now, your turn.”
He paused a moment while she resettled herself in the chair and looked down her nose at him. She was not going to let him off easy.
Soldier cleared his throat. “Okay, ‘sex.’ ”
She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Don’t you have any imagination at all?”
He nodded. “You’d be surprised. You heard me, ‘sex.’ ”
“Then my response would be ‘no.’ ”
“That’s not an acceptable response. You have to say a thing.”
“All right,” she sighed. “ ‘A thing.’ ”
“Betsy—”
“What lays on its back a hundred feet in the air?”
He groaned. “What?”
“A dead centipede.”
“Betsy, we really need to talk about what happened last night. I realize now that I shouldn’t have come to your room. I had the best of intentions. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. But when I got closer to you, saw you all curled up in bed, all warm and sexy, I . . . I . . . I got hard.”
Her cheeks flushed and she looked down. “You think I’m sexy?” She focused her attention on her fingers, twisting around themselves in her lap.
“Betsy, I’ve never met—”
Whatever Soldier was about to confess was lost under the scream of an approaching siren.
They searched each other’s eyes for a split second, then ran to the window in time to see an ambulance tear by, turning the corner at top speed. A second later the siren went mute.
Soldier’s fingers bit into Betsy’s shoulders. “Where’s Taylor?” His voice had gone harsh as he forced out the words. “How long has he been gone?”
She shook her head. “Um, fifteen minutes? Twenty? Maybe he came in the back door and we didn’t hear—”
“Taylor!” Soldier shouted his brother’s name. “Taylor! Answer me!” Silence. “Shit!”
Soldier grabbed Betsy’s hand and took off at a dead run, his long legs carrying him out the front door and halfway down the street. Terrified of letting her out of his sight, he kept her pulled tightly against him as they ran toward the red and blue flashing lights.
As they rounded the corner, he saw a small crowd of neighbors huddled together, shaking their heads. A few of the older ladies had their fingertips to their mouths in an expression of shock and dismay.
The paramedics were there, bent over somebody lying in the middle of the street.
Panic gripped him and he heard Betsy gasp in shock.
Slowly, he approached the medics and tried to get a better look at the victim. But an officer on the scene lifted his hands, palms out, ordering them back.
“McKennitt, SPD,” Soldier growled as he reached into his back pocket and flipped open his ID. “I just want to know who it is. My brother went out for a walk and hasn’t come back.”
The officer glanced at Soldier’s credentials and nodded. “Detective McKennitt. Describe your brother.”
In a calm voice, Soldier said, “Caucasian, thirty-one years of age, six-foot-two, dark brown hair, blue eyes—”
A worried look passed over the cop’s face. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, much more personal. “I’m very sorry, Detective. You’d better come with me. We’re going to need you to identify your brother’s body.”
Chapter 13
He awoke to pain. His skull throbbed and his body was one giant bruise. He tried to open his eyes but his lids wouldn’t cooperate. He felt like he’d stumbled off a whirly ride at the fair, leaving him disoriented and queasy.
What the hell had happened?
The last thing he remembered was crossing the street to get back to . . . to . . . somebody’s house. He could see her face in his mind but couldn’t recall her name. His wife? No, he was divorced. That, he knew.
A bright flash of memory shot into his head and he groaned. There had been movement under a tree just down the street. A car. He had ignored it. Stupid move for a cop.
A cop. Okay, that fit. He was a cop. A bad one, apparently.
The morning was dark, overcast, cold. He remembered hearing the low thrumming of an engine, seeing lights flash on, shining in his eyes, blinding him. Then pain. Then . . . nothing.
Through his confusion he heard someone calling to him. Who was Taylor? Was that his name? He just couldn’t seem to remember.
He focused on that distant voice, but the words were elusive. The bees buzzing in his ears drowned out all other sounds. But that insistent voice grew louder, stronger. It was deep, urgent, demanding . . . panicked.
Even so, the voice was familiar, and that brought him relief and comfort. He wanted to hear it again, needed to. He rolled his head an inch and regretted it. Pain gripped his skull like a vice, but he had to let the voice know he was okay, that he was still in there, still fighting.
He moved his mouth and tried to speak, but only a gagging sound emerged. He feared he might vomit.
Then he felt something grip his hand, strong, warm fingers and a broad palm. Jack . . . his brother. He had a brother whose name was Jack.
He relaxed a little. Maybe he would remember everything after all. Thank God.
It took every ounce of strength he had, but he squeezed his fingers around his brother’s hand, and was rewarded with a word, joyfully spoken, and then a rush of words he could barely comprehend. Thankful words, he could tell that much. He wanted to smile, but the small movement would be too painful.
As the darkness closed around him again, he heard the sound of crying. Not a woman’s soft keening, but crying the way men did it. Deep and gasping. Trying not to cry, but unable to stop the tears when they came.
Ah, Jack, he thought. I’m all right. I’m in here, and I’m all right. . . .
When Taylor came to again, his room was silent. A dull light penetrated his closed lids and he realized he wanted to open his eyes. He did, then pinched them shut again. Somebody was shining a bright light into his pupils.
Though his throat was parched, he growled, “Get that goddamned light out of my eyes.”
With a little click, the beam went dark.
“Welcome back, Taylor.” The voice was decidedly feminine, but he didn’t recognize it. “Why don’t you open your eyes again? I promise not to bite.”
Opening his eyes a little at a time, he realized he was in a hospital bed and a blurry female form was leaning over him. He blinked a few more times, letting his eyes get used to the low light in the room while he tried to focus on the woman. No dice.
It was like trying to look at somebody through an aquarium at night. Though her features were distorted, he could see that she was smiling at him. He was sure he’d never seen her before in his life.
“You a nurse?” he murmured.
“Ah, not nearly as good,” she said. “I’m a doctor. Your doctor. Can you tell me your name?”
“Tell me yours first.”
She laughed a little. He liked it. “Ooo-hoo. Aren’t you the stubb
orn one? Okay, I’m Claire Hunter.”
“Okay, Claire Hunter,” he growled. “Where’s my brother? He can tell you what my name is.”
“I’ll get him in a minute,” she said. “He and Betsy were pretty beat, so I sent them to get some coffee and food. Your brother was afraid you’d awaken while he was gone, so I promised to stay with you until he returned.”
“Hmm. He’s the oldest, you know. Pushy. Likes to be in charge.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. Her voice was soft, soothing, comforting. “I’m an oldest myself. We’re beastly.” Though he’d closed his eyes again, Taylor was sure she was smiling.
“Now,” she said. “Your name?”
She’d called him Taylor. He’d start with that. “T-Taylor . . . um, Mc . . . Kennitt. Taylor McKennitt.” His head throbbed with the effort to remember. “Why was that so hard?”
“You have a concussion, Taylor. I’m going to ask you some questions. How you answer them will help tell me how severe a concussion you have. Ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are we?”
“Hospital.”
She laughed. “No, what town are we in?”
“Uh, let me think about that one.”
“Okay, let’s try something else. How about counting backward from a hundred?”
Taylor tried to visualize the numbers. “One hundred. Ninety-something, ninety . . . ninety . . .”
“That’s good,” Dr. Hunter lied.
She had a great bedside manner, he thought, but was lousy at math. Why the hell couldn’t he remember how to count?
“Do you know your brother’s name?”
Taylor blinked his eyes open and looked at the doctor. “It’s Jack, and I know it’s short for something, but I can’t remember what. I mean, it’s on the tip of my tongue, but I just—”
Dr. Hunter smiled again and made some notes on the clipboard she was holding. “Don’t worry about it. That’s what happens with a concussion.” Her voice was soft and her eyes softer. She had really pretty brown eyes. “Your brain gets bruised and things get a little confusing,” she continued. “You’ll be fine in a couple of days.”
Panic made Taylor’s heart lurch. His distress must have shown on his face because Dr. Hunter leaned a little closer and took his hand in a detached and doctorly way. Her skin was warm, and he let himself enjoy the contact.
The Damsel in This Dress Page 17
