Shadow protector, p.16
Shadow Protector, page 16
She needed to go through the night again, frame by frame. She could thank Hollis for making that much possible.
A protracted creak of floorboards from above brought a smile to her lips. Glancing at her scraped palm, she released her ponytail, rearranged her cap and started to hum.
The moment she did, the killer burst through her office door, charging toward her, coat flapping. No—she held herself perfectly still—not a coat, not exactly. It was a three-quarter-length protective work jacket, the kind the maintenance people in her office building wore.
She stared at the corridor wall, careful not to rush the memory.
The mothball and mildew smell struck her strongly. The words he shouted echoed and overlapped. He wore a watch. Then, in a blink, he didn’t. There was only a tan line. Same man, she realized, two looks. And the smell was gone, too.
“‘He’s dead, in his grave,’” the killer raged. “‘No one puts a ghoul in his grave…’”
She frowned. That couldn’t be right. But she sensed it was close.
When the image went irretrievably fuzzy, she opened the door to her room and went inside. An unexpected movement near the bathroom snapped her into the moment. Swearing, she spun and shouted automatically.
“Fred!”
Awkward hands grabbed her from behind. She tried to turn but couldn’t, so she jabbed an elbow into her attacker’s solar plexus and used her heel on his foot.
A stiletto would have been better, but the hiking boot worked because he yelped and thrust her into the wall.
Something hit the floor. He gave her another rough shove.
“Fred!” When he yanked on her hair, anger overrode fear. “Bastard,” she hissed and groped for the table lamp.
As her fingers curled around it, she wrenched herself out of his grasp just enough to swing the base like a bat. She’d been going for his head, but the strike on his shoulder did the job. He tossed her into a small table and went for the partly open door.
Stairs creaked. She heard footsteps in the hall. Feet pounded. Then everything stopped.
“Fred?” Running across the room, she set a hand on the doorframe and swung out. Giddy relief swept through her. Not Fred, she realized, resting her head on the wood, but Logan.
It had to be mild hysteria that made her want to laugh. Logan had a knee planted in her attacker’s back and a hand clamped around his neck.
Letting out a deep breath, she asked, “Who is it?”
“Old barmate of ours.”
When he dragged the man’s head up, her eyes widened and the laugh escaped. “Are you serious?”
There, lying on the floor, with one of her purses wrapped around his arm, was the biker Logan had ticketed several days earlier—Wayne Postle.
“SO IT WAS Wayne who jumped me in your room the night the power went out.”
“The night it was cut.” Logan handed her a mug containing the dregs of the day’s coffee. “For the record.”
With a doubtful glance at the contents, Sera braved a sip. “This is the second time he’s assaulted me then. That pisses me off.”
“You’re not alone.”
Smiling at his dark tone, she pushed the mug back into his hands. “Your coffee’s terrible.”
“Toby makes it.”
“From the by-products of an outhouse still?” she countered sweetly and made him chuckle.
He was on station duty for the remainder of the night, thanks to Annabelle’s in-laws who’d shown up unexpectedly for Blue Ridge Days. After bringing Wayne in, Logan had cut her loose and sent his night deputies out on patrol.
Sera poked a finger into the soil of a withered cactus. “Talk to me, Chief. Who did what the night Wayne blindsided me in your room?”
“Wayne is Autumn’s boyfriend.”
“What?” Astonishment halted her halfway to the sink. “Did Wayne tell you that?”
“He didn’t have to. She had the keys to his Kawasaki in her pocket the night she crashed Flo’s car into the barn. That’s why she took off in the first place. To rendezvous with him. She met him where he’d been holed up—in a work shack on the Bulley farm. He used the shack both as a flop and as a storehouse for everything he’s stolen since coming to Blue Ridge. It’s a sizeable stash, and it explains the recent rash of thefts.”
“About which I’m guessing you already had your suspicions.”
“What can I say? He fit the profile. As for the night in question, the Bulley boys were all in jail, and Wayne, being an opportunist with a nose for hooch, saw the still he’d been fortunate enough to stumble across in the ravine as a liquid gold mine. He and Autumn went there, swiped a couple quarts and got wasted. He passed out, and she drove back home.”
“Via the barn. She kept saying ‘Dumb hick’ while I was putting her to bed. She must have been talking about Wayne.”
“Yeah, well, first he kept her waiting, then, when he finally showed up at the shack, she discovered he was out of commission for the night thanks to you.”
Sera filled a small watering can and cast a smile over her shoulder. “I’m jumped, I fight back. So you’re saying they got drunk after Wayne broke into your house.”
“Call it a medicinal bender.” Logan dumped the cold coffee and rinsed the mug. “Far as I can tell, he wasn’t sure if Autumn was there or not when he arrived at my place. She wanted to keep their relationship quiet, so he skulked around outside, saw you and Flo in the kitchen and decided to climb up the trellis to my room.”
Sera gave the cactus enough water to soften the soil. “So we know Wayne’s inside the house. Can we skip to the Blindfold Killer?”
“He probably used the side door. Flo’s mind’s been tied up with Autumn, and until recently, she hasn’t been turning locks.”
“Oh good, more guilt.”
“Why? Because you witnessed a crime? Screw that, Sera. The guy got in and got lucky. The breaker box is right inside the door. He must have flipped off the house lights thinking it would be easier to dispose of you in the dark. Flo came in. He whacked her and went after you. But you had a weapon, and his balls, while expanding, aren’t that big.”
Boosting herself onto a cabinet, Sera let her eyes sparkle. “See what happens when you hang out with a shrink? You start analyzing every little thing.”
“‘Little’ being the operative word here.”
“You think the more people he murders, the more inflated the killer’s ego is becoming, don’t you?”
“Don’t you?”
“I see an insignificant individual with grandiose dreams. Or maybe I should say a grandiose goal. He kills once—there’s a weight off his chest. It can be done. Kill again, that’s affirmation. With each successive death, his confidence builds. He goes in, bang, slash, stab, he gets out, fist pumped. Yes! He’s got a signature, but he’s a phantom, a fearsome one. Achieving his goal’s gonna be a piece of cake. Then, uh-oh, sudden glitch. Not so easy this time around. But it’s fixable. He has to back up, think the problem through, revise his plan, first with me, then, on the spur of the moment, with Flo.”
“Revised plan fails,” Logan continued. “One glitch leads to another. Maybe he’s rushing. In any case, he’s inside the house now. Power’s out, Flo’s a non-factor. He’s back on track.”
“Except—woo—I have a gun. I might fire, could get lucky. Then, dammit, Flo wakes up, finds me. But he’s still got the dark and, for the most part, the upper hand. Flo and I go upstairs. No problem. He’ll follow, kill us both. But, double damn, he spots headlights on the road leading to the house. Gotta be the police chief. Time to leave.”
“He who fights and runs away, Sera.”
“A sentiment the Blindfold Killer apparently shares with Wayne.”
“You and Flo came into my room. Wayne panicked.”
“He ran for the door, heard you, reversed and took a header out the window.”
“Roared off on his bike, rendezvoused belatedly with Autumn, then drowned his pain and frustration in Bulley whiskey.”
“Didn’t learn any lessons in the process, but that’s hardly surprising.” Hopping down, Sera started toward him. “Do you think the killer and Wayne knew about each other?”
“I doubt if their paths crossed, although from what you’ve told me, Wayne might have heard the murderer taunting you. If he did, I’ll get it out of him.”
She didn’t doubt it. However, at that moment, she didn’t care. Or more accurately, she cared about something else and no longer wanted to think about thieves, murderers and or any person not standing directly in front of her.
Logan had a sofa in his office—not large, but adequate. Only a third of the station lights were burning, his night deputies were on patrol and the street outside was empty.
Drawing closer, she unbuttoned her black shirt, teased him with her movements. “Your prisoners are asleep. I can hear them snoring through two closed doors. You won’t get anything out of Wayne tonight, and, although that pizza was good, all it really did was put an edge on.” At his unreadable expression, she widened meaningful eyes. “My appetite.” She walked her fingers up his chest. “Anything you can do to help me out there, Chief?”
He didn’t say a word, just hauled her against him and crushed his mouth to hers. His eyes were glittering when he raised his head. “Answer your question, Doc?”
It might—if she could remember what it was. Every thought in her head had just been blasted apart. Only a shimmering haze remained—and somewhere in the nether regions of her mind, Bob Marley crooned softly.
Rather than fight it, Sera used the hypnotic rhythm to her advantage. She swayed into Logan, slid her arms around his neck, reached for his mouth. And only smiled when he swept her up in his arms and started for the back room.
Forget dinner in a fancy restaurant. This topped food by a landslide.
Poker debt paid in full.
HE COULDN’T NURSE his gunshot wound properly. He’d been forced to suck up the pain, drive into town, park on a side street and take a stiff-legged walk out to Main.
Had it been good luck or bad that he’d come around the corner at that particular moment?
The town had been in an uproar—people hammering and drilling, others on ladders, hanging flags and baskets and colorful ribboned signs. It had been an easy enough matter to secrete himself behind a stack of crates, but what he’d seen caused him to break out in a cold sweat.
What were the odds that this would happen?
He’d breathed slowly to calm himself. Odds didn’t matter. The worst had transpired, but he was still ahead of the game. Of equal importance, he was ahead of the Blue Ridge police chief. He hoped.
What should he do? What could he do?
Don’t panic for a start. Think, calculate, rectify.
He’d stood there, sweating like pig. And then, not half a minute later, a possible reprieve.
He’d looked around the crowded street. Busy, preoccupied people rushed every which way. It could be done. It must be done.
Relaxing his muscles, he’d pulled his hat down over his face, stuffed his hands in his pockets and wandered through the crowd toward the clinic.
Chapter Eighteen
“You’re looking mighty pleased with yourself, Logan.” Fred clomped into the station at 7:00 a.m. “Night crew punched out yet?”
“Half an hour ago.” Feet propped, Logan examined the barrel of a rusty Winchester. He read the crudely carved initials and grinned. “Looks like we recovered Edgar’s daddy’s rifle.”
“Part of Wayne Postle’s loot?” Fred inspected the collection of stolen merchandise Logan had spread out over three desks and the floor. “Aw, what’s this? He stole ladies’ purses? What’s the matter with him?”
“He was after the contents, Fred. You saw him with two of Sera’s bags last night.”
“And my silver dollar collection, and Sig’s autographed Mickey Mantle baseball, your laptop, Sera’s pretty diamond earrings and two tins of Flo’s chocolate chunk oatmeal cookies that she baked for the potluck picnic raffle.”
Setting the rifle aside, Logan swung his feet down. “Guy’s in jail and loot’s been recovered. We’ll have a list of stolen items posted around town by noon. We dismantled two more stills, and Annabelle’s in-laws have decided to stay at the hotel instead of her place. All in all, I’d call it a good night’s work.”
Fred tapped the side of his nose. “You and Sera’ve got something going, haven’t you? I know it’s…”
“None of your business.” Logan glanced at the clinic, considered for a moment, then returned his gaze to the desks. “I’ve got most of this stuff sorted. All you have to do is tag the items and post the list.”
The big man deflated. “Logan, about my kid…”
“She’s an accessory after the fact, Fred. Get her into rehab, and stop beating yourself up. Autumn’s getting a second chance. What happens next is her choice.” He reached for his ringing cell. “Logan.”
“I’ve got the lab report for you, Chief,” one of the deputies from Casper said. “We e-mailed the results, but I thought you’d want the gist firsthand.”
“And that is?”
“We brought up the breakdown on Hugh Paxton’s blood work, then ran the samples you gave us and eliminated yours straight off. Left us with two. And point for point they’re about as dissimilar as blood types get. Read into that what you will, Logan, but one thing’s sure. I don’t envy you your job right now.”
A DOZEN CREAM-COLORED roses laced with baby’s breath were waiting for Sera when she arrived at the clinic. They were artfully arranged in a clear glass vase and stood front and center on the reception desk. The attached card read:
Sera,
If I am where I’m meant to be,
Then where are you?
Logan.
The cryptic question, not to mention the gesture itself, would have occupied Sera’s thoughts all day if she hadn’t gone into the second examining room and discovered the contents of a dozen or more patient files strewn across the floor.
Her first thought was that Dr. Prichard had let himself in and flung them from the cabinet where they’d been stacked. Her second was that 8:00 a.m. had come and gone and Beth, who’d promised to open the doors promptly at 7:30, still wasn’t at her desk.
When she hadn’t appeared by 8:30, Sera called both her home and her cell—and got no answer on either phone.
Nudging a curious Ella aside, Toby crawled around on his hands and knees. “If you’re right, Doc, Prichard must have had some kind of mad on to do a thing like this.”
Wearing jeans and a pale-blue halter-top, Sera took advantage of the early morning lull and joined him. Still unsure about Beth, she sat on the floor next to the alley exit and began sorting.
Her hair remained damp from the fastest shower she’d ever taken. Logan’s fault, of course. They’d made love twice on his lumpy office sofa. When the night patrol returned, they’d driven to his house to rush through one of Flo’s hearty breakfasts, change clothes and somehow pretend they’d gotten at least an hour of sleep last night.
Reaching over, she felt for the door beside her. If it hadn’t been ajar and stuck, she might not have noticed the tiny scratches around the lock. But she did notice them—and didn’t like what they implied.
Kneeling, she studied the marks. “Uh, Toby? Does Dr. Prichard still have his keys?”
“Mayor says we can’t take them away until he’s officially dismissed or quits.”
A chill feathered along her spine. “In that case, we need to get Logan over here. I have a feeling it wasn’t Prichard who went through the files last night.”
HE DIDN’T LIKE the way the nurse scrunched her mouth and wouldn’t look at him. The whole left side of his body throbbed like a bad tooth, and no matter how dire the circumstances, she was supposed to be a caregiver.
Abandoning discretion, he showed her his wound. “It’s infected, isn’t it?” he demanded.
She glanced up, then back down. “Judging from the ooze and the swelling, I’d say yes. But then I haven’t got my glasses, and I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
He ground his teeth. “You took an oath to help people.”
Her voice was quietly spiteful. “Nurses make vows, doctors take oaths.”
“Fine, then I’ll just kill you now and be done with it.”
His lash of temper closed her mouth quick enough and actually made her lips tremble. “If you wanted me dead, you’d have killed me at my place. Not stolen my car and brought me here.”
“I don’t want you dead at all.” Snarling, he hobbled back and forth in front of her. “The only person I’m after is Dr. Hudson. This is about justice, not how many corpses I can rack up. People stay out of my way, I leave them be. I’m not a homicidal maniac.”
“Then why do you want to kill Doc Sera?” At his vicious look, the nurse dropped her gaze to the floor. “If you need medical attention, she’s the one who can give it to you.”
He would have laughed if a shaft of white-hot pain hadn’t shot along his leg from hip to ankle. A few pointy fingers actually kicked up into his chest and made him cough.
He set his face close to hers and drew strength from his fury. “Maybe I’ll enlighten you before I’m done. Dr. Hudson might not remember what I look like, but she’ll see me clear enough when I get her here.” Whipping out a white bandanna, he gave it a snap. “I’m veering off the path with her. She’s put me through hell, so I’m going to pay her back in kind. No easy death for her. I’m doing this for Papa. And trust me, Papa’s really pissed off.”
TOBY FELT CERTAIN it was one of his cousins who’d broken into the clinic, but despite the Bulleys’ collectively vindictive natures, Sera wasn’t convinced.
Whether Logan would have agreed or not became a moot point when a family of six rushed through the front door, shouting for her to help their grandfather.
The seventy-six-year-old man was having chest pains. His terror spawned a panic attack in his wife and caused his daughter to hyperventilate. Sera dealt with the most serious problem and was forced to leave the other two patients to Toby.
