Deadly Encounter

by DiAnn Mills

  “Yes. Once the adoption is filed, I plan to sell my house and relocate the clinic.”

  “Good. Stay put for right now. The judge could view your relocation of the clinic and move as unstable. But I know your area, and I can’t blame you for wanting out of there.”

  “Mr. Nardell, I won’t do a thing that might jeopardize the hearing.”

  “Wise decision. I read you had an eventful weekend.”

  She inwardly moaned. “Media got the word out.”

  “I wish you’d have consulted with me before the FBI’s and HPD’s questioning.”

  “Never crossed my mind. I had nothing to hide. Media contacted me, but I refused to make a statement.”

  “Wise move. Right now you don’t need any more attention. If anything escalates, let me know. You’re under enough stress.”

  She hung up the phone and typed the court date into her online calendar. Where was Mr. Parson? She could set her clock according to the elderly man’s daily arrival, and he always phoned ahead if he feared he’d be a minute late.

  “Them dogs wait for me to walk ’em,” he’d said repeatedly.

  Over an hour had slipped by without a word from him, and she hoped his health hadn’t dealt him a nasty blow. Nearing ninety-one years old, Mr. Parson complained of aching bones and a nagging cough. She pressed in his number on the landline and listened to his voice message. Worry assaulted her. If he didn’t contact her by noon, she’d ask Whitt to mind the clinic while she paid him a visit.

  A jingle alerted her to someone entering the clinic, and she longed for the familiar leathered face. “Mr. Parson?” She hurried down the hall to the front reception area.

  She stopped the moment she recognized the man—Ace McMann, wearing a red face and a permanent scowl, dripped water on the floor.

  “Where’s my boy?” He smelled like sweat and alcohol, the stench coming from the pores of his skin. “There’s a padlock on the house.”

  She clutched her cell phone in her lab jacket and took a quick look to press Record. She moved to where the man leaned on the counter. “Whitt’s at school.”

  “I’m not stupid. This is summer.” He spoke low . . . and frightening.

  “Whitt’s attending summer school, remember?”

  “You’re lying. He’s smart.”

  “He’s getting extra credits so he can graduate from high school early.”

  “You’re filling him with stupid ideas. Want to get him away from me and his mother.” He sneered. “I need the key to get in the house. Whitt leave it with you?”

  “Neither he nor I have a key.”

  He swore, calling her vile names. “Oh, the old lady forgot to pay the rent again. Are you ready to hand over the fifty grand for my kid?”

  She wouldn’t have to. Not only did she have the McManns’ history, but the school had provided enough ammunition for them to lose custody. “Selling children is against the law.”

  “I admit he ain’t worth much, but I guess he could clean your cages like he does now.”

  Her temper would get her into trouble if she didn’t find a way to curb it soon. “Whitt is highly intelligent. He plans to enter college much sooner than other kids his age. His ambition to succeed will take him far.”

  “Whatever. When will he be here? I need money.”

  “He doesn’t have any.”

  “I know you pay him to clean up. Why else would he hang around?”

  How about a breather from your abuse? “His earnings go directly into a savings account.”

  “You—”

  “Cursing me doesn’t change a thing. Whitt’s a fine boy, and you should be proud of him.”

  “Maybe, if he’d take care of those who brought him into the world.”

  “He didn’t have a choice of parents.” She wanted to ask how Ace had gotten out of jail so quickly but thought better of it. Since he was in his driveway when she called the police, he could have gotten his bail reduced.

  “I asked when he’d be here.” His voice rose and she detected a slur. “Won’t ask again.”

  “I told you he’s at school. Please leave now.” She pulled her phone from her pocket as though it were a weapon.

  He picked up a glass bowl of doggy treats and sent it shattering to the floor. “I’ll leave when I see my boy and get what he owes for his keep.”

  “How do you figure he owes you? He’s twelve years old.” She cautioned herself again to control her temper.

  “My business, and you got your nose where it don’t belong.”

  “You’ve been drinking. Either leave or I’ll call the police.”

  “You’re going to wish you’d never been born.” He scoured the clinic, narrowing his gaze into every corner. “Hate to see this burned to the ground with them animals in it. People might be upset to have their animals barbecued.” He stumbled to a painting of a mother collie and her pups. Sneering, he pulled it from the wall and smashed it against the floor. “Ask Whitt what he gets when he crosses me.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Take it how you want. A little gasoline would send this up like a torch.”

  “Think about this—Whitt works here sometimes. Do you really want to burn the clinic with your son inside?”

  “That’s his problem. He has a bed at the house.”

  “Not when you don’t pay the rent.”

  “Where he’s at ain’t my business unless I need money.”

  McMann’s admittance was vital for the judge to grant her custody. “Anything else you’d like to say?”

  “Yes—I’m tired of you spending time with my boy. You want a real man? I can oblige anytime. Right now is just fine. We can use one of those tables for operating on animals.”

  “Enough of your filth.” She took a step back to call the police.

  He yanked the phone from her hand and threw it across the room, pieces flying everywhere. “I’m leaving, but I’ll be back. You tell my son he’d better bring me what’s due.” He slammed the door behind him.

  Stacy walked across the room to gather the remnants of her phone. McMann didn’t realize her security camera had caught him in action, along with audio. She’d send the video on to her attorney. . . .

  The rain had stopped by the time Stacy greeted Whitt after school. The police had filed assault charges and arrested Ace at a bar two blocks down. The video of his actions sealed his fate in jail, and hopefully he’d be incarcerated through next week’s hearing. Whitt’s mother was facing her third prostitution charge, and when she was in the picture, she ignored her son. At least Whitt had been spared his father’s temper and the scene when he attempted to hit a female police officer. Stacy had witnessed the assault and recorded the officer’s name for her attorney.

  She’d decided not to tell Whitt about his father’s arrest, but the broken picture of the collie and puppies stirred his curiosity. Especially with a broom and dustpan in her hand.

  “How did the picture break?” He whirled around. “My dad is the one responsible for this mess, isn’t he?”

  Her heart ached for him, but lies solved nothing.

  “How did he get bailed out of jail? Never mind, probably his supplier.”

  “He’s on his way back there.”

  He took the broom and dustpan from her. “I’ll do this. Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine. Just a little shaken. How about you sweep and I’ll dump?”

  His lips quivered.

  “You make your decisions, and he makes his. When he’s not drinking, he treats you fairly.”

  Whitt nodded. “Happens rarely. The problem is he loves his addictions more than me.”

  “That’s not true. The drugs and alcohol have him chained. He’s in a prison.”

  “He chooses to be there, and I hate him and Mom for it.”

  “I understand. But I want you to see that those we love who hurt us shouldn’t be despised because then we become imprisoned by the chains of hate. I don’t want you destroyed by any poison.”
>
  “Is this about God too?”

  “Yes. He’s bigger than our problems.”

  Whitt shook his head. “Not yet, Miss Stacy. The concept of a heavenly Father who might resemble my dad turns me against church talk. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not giving up.”

  He smiled. “Thanks.”

  Thoughts of her own parents swept across her mind. She missed them, and yet she held back. Her calls to them were once a month on a Monday evening. Twelve minutes long. Her heart wanted to tell them of her love, but the past stuck in her throat, choking the life out of her relationship with them. She and Whitt had much in common. . . . Both carried the burden of responsibility at a young age, powerless with circumstances beyond their control. They enslaved themselves to ugly feelings.

  She comforted herself that soon he’d be in her home, where dysfunctional behavior was an occurrence of the past. The moment the thought left her mind, she chastised herself. Self-centered actions were a part of every human being, but she could provide love, faith, traits that had escaped his parents. Faith was something she needed to practice more, not use Jesus as a drive-by solution to life’s misfortunes.

  “You’re quiet,” Whitt said, walking back to the clinic’s kitchenette. “Upset with me, or haven’t you told me all that transpired?”

  “Sorry. How’s school?”

  He laughed. “Trig had me a little bored, but learning foreign languages is fun. We’re doing a play in Spanish a week from Friday. Wanna come?”

  “Sure. Remind me a few days before with the time.”

  “Okay. Is Mr. Parson walking one of the dogs? I asked him yesterday to let me take care of Xena.” He stacked ham and cheese on wheat bread.

  “He didn’t show up today. I called, but it went to voice mail.”

  “Leave a message?”

  Oh, his meticulous way of handling detail. “Three messages. No response. Would you keep an eye on things while I make a quick trip there?”

  “Do you need to ask?” He squirted mayo onto his bread. “He complained of a headache last night during the carnival teardown, and he’s really old.”

  Stacy had enough pressures without adding the failing health of a dear old man. She grabbed her keys. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Text when you’re there.”

  “I can’t. Dropped my phone, and it’s in pieces. Do me a favor and find out how late the Apple Store is open tonight, and we’ll run by and pick up a new one.”

  Whitt shook his head and handed her his cell. “Take mine and call on the landline when you find Mr. Parson. It scares me when I think of your handling life without my assistance.”

  Would he ever concede to being a child? “I squeaked by before, so I can do it again. My organization skills are a little lax, but I’m doing better.”

  “A little?”

  She laughed.

  “Ignorance is not bliss.”

  She laughed again and he joined her.

  A few moments later, she parked in front of Mr. Parson’s home. His car was in the driveway. When he didn’t answer the doorbell or her knocking, she turned the knob and stepped inside. “Mr. Parson? This is Stacy. Are you okay?”

  Blinds were open, and a blue-green aquarium hummed. His small, tidy home reminded her of everything uniquely him—family photos, A&M paraphernalia from his great-granddaughter, his deceased wife’s hobby of embroidering pillows, and his stamp collection. A hint of Old Spice. Yet no sign of Mr. Parson, and she called to him twice more. He had acute hearing, so if he were there, he’d have responded. Unless . . .

  Dread washed over her. She walked through the living area and into the kitchen, where a full glass of orange juice rested on the counter. The house layout meant the bedrooms would be down the hallway to her right, and she ventured there while repeatedly calling his name.

  The first bedroom contained a treadmill and weights. She smiled at the many times he’d bragged about his four-mile-a-day cardio and four-day-a-week weight-lifting program. A small bath was empty, and she even pulled back a shower curtain to ensure he hadn’t fallen. Before entering the second and last bedroom at the end of the hall, she called his name. But no answer.

  Her heart pounded violently against her chest. Perhaps finding a body on Saturday and Ace McMann’s threat had deemed her officially paranoid.

  She glanced at his bed and moaned. Mr. Parson’s head hung over the edge. She rushed to his side, but his open eyes were gone to this world.

  “Mr. Parson,” she whispered. “Tell me you’re all right. Please.”

  Squeezing her eyes shut to stop the flow of tears, she checked for a pulse. None. Acid rose in her throat, and she forced it back down.

  This would be the second time in three days she’d alerted 911 to a dead body.

  EARLY TUESDAY MORNING, Alex met Dexter at Starbucks near the FBI office to report he’d made amends with Stacy. Not that the conversation was necessary, but his mentor had been like a father to him since he’d lost his parents in a car accident. Alex could never repay the Raykens’ support and encouragement in the past and present.

  Dexter had worked several years for the CDC and then the LRN and was now the director of the Houston lab.

  “I apologized and she accepted it,” Alex said.

  “Is evidence stacking up for or against her?” Dexter said, taking a bite of a cinnamon chip scone.

  “For, I think. She’s clean, and I like her.”

  He raised a brow. “So the suspect is attractive? Does that make you want to run?”

  “A marathon. But she’s keeping her distance from me.”

  “She’s not pleading, ‘Help me, save me, marry me’?”

  Alex frowned, but the question deserved a response. “You’re harsh, but no. She’s active in her church and community. Independent from what I’ve seen.” He took a long drink of his coffee. “I promised you I’d never date a woman who was involved with a case until arrests and charges were filed. I’m asking you to keep me accountable. Friendship? Yes. A relationship? No.”

  “You got it.”

  Alex had a brief flashback of the woman he thought had been innocent. She perjured herself on the witness stand and was found guilty of dealing in illegal weapons. She’d sworn her love to Alex until the truth was exposed.

  “Alex?”

  He smiled. “Yep.”

  “A lesson learned. ‘The truth is like a lion; you don’t have to defend it. Let it loose; it will defend itself.’”

  “She’s Cajun.”

  Dexter nearly choked on his scone. “The good Lord has something grand in store for you.”

  “I’ve thought the same thing. We’ll see when the truth surfaces.”

  Dexter reached for a metal tin on the floor. “Eva sent chocolate chip cookies. I told her a man of your age outgrows those things.”

  “Never,” Alex said. “Let me have one and I’ll dip it in my coffee. And tell her I’ll take her cookies as long as she bakes them.”

  Alex approached Ric at his cubicle. “I’d like to walk the crime scene again, then stop in at the Aldine Westfield Stables. Although Stacy’s riding partners checked out, we haven’t talked to the stable manager.” He glanced at his watch. His stomach growled but it was only eleven. “There’s a Whataburger close to where we’re going.”

  “You’re on.” Ric grabbed his phone. “You drive, bro.”

  While on the road to the northern outskirts of the airport, Alex tapped the steering wheel of his Jeep and replayed the interview with the Howes’ rabbi. “Do we have additional info on Rabbi Feldman?”

  “Hold on.” Ric pressed into his phone. “So righteous he’s sterilized. Feldman despised what Howe did to his daughter, but the rabbi was with his family the morning of the murder. Before you say another word, the report’s in on Elle Vieson and her boyfriend.”

  “Anything we can use?”

  “Of course not,” Ric said. “They were seen together Saturday morning having breakfast alone at The Egg & I on Me
morial Drive. After we left her, an employee admitted to Vieson that he was responsible for the Facebook prank. Seventeen years old, and she fired him.”

  “We’re eliminating suspects, but I’d feel better with more progress.” Alex swung onto the road leading to the airport trail. He pulled into a spot beside a new white Lexus. “Familiar car?” he said.

  “No.”

  Could be anyone.

  They exited the Jeep and took the path toward the crime scene. On Saturday he hadn’t noticed how very green the area looked. The crime and humidity, along with a few million mosquitoes, deterred his appreciation of nature.

  His mind turned to the reason he and Ric were there, and he zoomed into alert mode. Other agents had checked with the airlines for threats, but there had been none. If Saturday had been successful, it would have been a surprise attack on innocent people.

  The two entered the clearing.

  A woman knelt where Todd Howe had fallen.

  “MRS. HOWE,” Alex said. “We’re sorry to disturb you.”

  Bekah slowly turned to them but didn’t move from her kneeling position. Several roses were strewn on the ground where her husband’s body had been discovered.

  Two more times Alex called her name. Grief sometimes paralyzed its victims.

  “Agent LeBlanc and Agent Price?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Alex said. “Is there something we can do for you?”

  “I’m talking to God about Todd.” She stood and wiped brush and dirt from her black skirt and white blouse. “I wanted to leave these flowers. Red roses were Todd’s favorite. I was praying as I placed each one on the ground.” She held a single rose and stooped to leave it with the others.

  “Is there anyone we can contact? You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I’m fine.” She closed her eyes and lifted her face to a clear sky. “I hadn’t visited where it happened, and I wanted to see where he died.”

  “Have you been here long?”

  “I’m not sure.” She continued to stare upward while tears streamed down her face. “Wish I could have been with him in those final moments. Held his hand. Whispered my love before he breathed his last.” She lowered her gaze to the roses. “It’s pretty here. Peaceful when a plane isn’t roaring overhead. When I arrived, squirrels were scampering about.”