Conard County--Traces of Murder Page 14

  “He may think we already know what’s going on. Maybe I shouldn’t have let Gage park out front.”

  There were no answers, damn it. Still no answers.

  “Brigid never shared any concern with you?”

  “No. But perhaps she didn’t want anyone else involved. Perhaps she feared exactly what happened.”

  Trace swore. “I was afraid you might say that. It’s been running through my mind, too, especially given the secrecy she and Allan have displayed.”

  “It’s awful to think,” Hillary said sadly. “Horrible. For her to live with that fear...”

  No answer to that, either.

  * * *

  AFTER A FEW more hours of reading Brigid’s letters, Hillary stepped out on the front porch. The snow continued to fall, more heavily than earlier, but no wind whipped it around. A beautiful winter scene.

  Reading Brigid’s letters made her sense of loss more acute. Brigid’s personality and her love for Allan shone through as brightly as an unwavering candle flame.

  That flame had been snuffed out. Originally Hillary had accepted the loss as the wages of war. She couldn’t do that anymore. A simmering anger burned inside her that not even the waning, snowy afternoon could wash away.

  Her hands clenched into fists at her side, a repetitive gesture she had tried to quell. Occasionally it still took over, and this time she didn’t try to stop it. An expression of powerful inner turmoil, the need to punch something was strong.

  Staring at the snow, she wished she had put on her skis. A good long cross-country would do her good right now, washing her brain with fresh cold air, working her body until it relaxed.

  She didn’t think it would be wise to run right now, although the temptation nearly overwhelmed her. But a fresh layer of snow could hide an underlying layer of ice, and it would help no one if a misstep sent her to the hospital.

  It certainly wouldn’t help Brigid.

  At last her hands stopped clenching. Her nose and cheeks were beginning to hurt from the cold. Damn, she wished again for that balaclava. But she hadn’t expected to be here this long. Summery clothes awaited her in an airport locker. From the Mediterranean coast she’d expected to return to Afghanistan. Cold-weather military gear waited for her there.

  One corner of her mouth lifted. Living out of what amounted to two or three locations. Packing light, traveling often. A wanderer who had a firm home base.

  Difficult as this visit had become, one good thing had come out of it: Trace. She was glad to have met him. Glad to have had sex with him. Hoped for more before she departed.

  There was a meeting of minds between them. A mostly comfortable meeting. She hadn’t wanted to grow close, but she had. Oh well.

  Calisthenics, she decided. The only alternative to reach physical fatigue.

  The image of herself, the Norwegian soldier, headed inside without challenging the elements of snow and ice, amused her. Her friends in her unit would probably laugh at her.

  Necessary risks were one thing, stupidity another.

  Chapter Twelve

  They must have learned something. The thought gnawed away at Stan Witherspoon’s mind like a rat. Why else would the sheriff have come over? Why?

  He could think of no other reason, although he tried. He began to wonder if he should get in touch with the boss and tell him about this mess.

  Surely the man hadn’t held Stan responsible for that woman happening to walk by at exactly the wrong time. She hadn’t been expected. Not a sentry that he planned for.

  But the thought of telling the boss about this made him quail. He’d probably meet the same fate as Brigid Mannerly. Besides, the boss had told him to sew it up.

  With two more murders.

  Stan couldn’t understand why he was balking now. He’d already caused the deaths of two people. Why not two more? In for a penny, as the saying went.

  Except that he still recoiled from the idea. He hadn’t figured out a way to pull it off, either. All his scrambling thoughts just kept pushing out more fear. And an increasing amount of self-loathing.

  Possibly worst of all was that he’d begun to fear himself as much as he feared his boss. Yes, he had to save his own skin, but the price was getting too high for a man who’d been hired merely to fudge inventory and move some weapons to the perimeter.

  Much too high.

  The money was certainly less of a motivator than it had been at the outset. Money would do him no good dead or in prison.

  Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

  Fear had driven Stan to the first awful act. Then to the second.

  And now to two more. He was in this up to his neck with no way out.

  He had believed himself to be a smart man. Now he believed he was a damn fool.

  And a murderer.

  * * *

  “I THINK I found something,” Trace announced.

  With wind blowing snow outside, the office in semidarkness, Hillary pivoted. “Where?” she asked.

  “In the pictures file, if you can believe it.”

  She scooted over to peer over his shoulder. She saw what appeared to be a photograph of a page from one of Brigid’s letters.

  “Middle paragraph,” he said. “I guess Allan destroyed the original.”

  I know what I saw, Allan. The first time I just thought it was a contractor employee checking out a crate. It bothered me in some way, so I walked by a few nights later. He was pulling out weapons and placing them on a tarp.

  “Just what we thought,” Hillary murmured.

  “No accusation, though.”

  “She was too smart for that. I don’t have to tell you. Her suspicion is clear or she never would have mentioned it.”

  He nodded and leaned back in his chair. “And the fact that Allan photographed the page means he felt the same.”

  “Which explains why I haven’t seen the original.”

  “Probably.” Allan drummed his fingers on the desk, then closed the file. “For now I need to stretch, to give myself some more heartburn with coffee and maybe eat something. Do you have any idea how many picture files that man has? I swear, he’s got photos going all the way back to high school.”

  Hillary rose and stretched. “How did you find that one?”

  “It was labeled not for distribution. I assumed it was some kind of sexy photo I would wish I’d never seen.”

  She had to smile. “Chicken. Have you ever watched a movie?”

  “Yeah, but my friends weren’t starring.”

  That at least pulled a laugh from her. He followed her out of the office, then watched her go to the living room, where she worked on stretching every muscle in her body. Not a bad idea, he thought. He was beginning to stiffen. But the damn coffee first. Once he had it going, he joined her in stretching.

  “I don’t think my neck or backside will ever be the same again.”

  She appeared amused. “Maybe not.”

  He uncovered the brownies to serve with the coffee, but neither of them wanted to sit at the table. A tradition broken.

  Instead they stood holding small plates of brownies and sipping from mugs that wound up on the counter or perched on the table.

  There really didn’t seem to be much to say. They’d proved their suspicion but still had nowhere to take it.

  “This may be a fruitless exercise,” Trace remarked. “Brigid may never have shared any specific details about which contractor she suspected. She might have continued to be vague.”

  Hillary arched a brow. “Are we giving up?”

  “Hell no. I don’t think Allan would have been so secretive if there wasn’t something more in there.”

  She nodded. “That’s my feeling.”

  She put her plate down beside her coffee on the counter and began pacing in the small space. “I don’t know about yo
ur training, but I was trained to put small pieces together so I would know what other questions might need to be asked. I am seeing many questions, but no one to ask.” She spread her hands ruefully. “Like being a detective, I suppose. Maybe worse, because we can’t just run around asking these questions of everyone we might know.”

  “That would be like allowing someone to draw a bead on us.”

  “Precisely.”

  He finished his own brownie and went to the sink to wash his hands and wipe a damp paper towel across his face. “Part of me wants to keep pushing, after finding that photo. Another part of me is in serious need of a break in front of the fire. Your options?”

  “The break. We need to stay fresh.”

  But something in the twinkle in her eye suggested she had more than a log fire in mind.

  Well, so did he.

  * * *

  ONCE THE FIRE was dancing on the hearth, they curled up together at one end of the couch. Trace wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, her arm around his waist, her head nestled on his shoulder. He leaned back in the bend between the sofa back and arm, and she tucked her legs up beneath her.

  That tickled him. This woman who had seemed as firm and tough as anyone in her job had become soft. Melting. She trusted him.

  He savored the connection and wanted to take time to enjoy the feeling. No rush. These moments seemed cast in amber.

  Eventually, however, the heat in his body rose to the level of the flames in the fireplace. Taking care to be gentle, he touched her chin with his finger and turned her face up to his.

  A lazy smile resided on her lips. Her eyes appeared drowsy.

  Bending, he kissed her, his tongue finding its way past her teeth. He felt a quivering response that drew him deeper, the two of them dueling slowly, exploring each other with tongues.

  Hell, he was ready to run rampant. He had to remind himself to move slowly. There was so much he wanted to do, such as exploring her every hill and hollow.

  Hillary indulged him for a while, allowing him to undress her then himself. When he sat again, he began his journey, kissing her throat, then kissing her firm breasts and nipples.

  He felt her response run through her, felt her arm tighten around his waist. Beautiful, he thought. She was perfect.

  He pulled a bit away to look at her from head to foot. Athletic, muscles formed by long hours of training but curves in all the right places. He ran his palms over her while he continued to suck her nipples.

  Her quivers grew stronger. Her fingers traced his back and chest, heightening his desire. Oh man...

  She finished waiting. With a sinuous move, she withdrew from him and lay back on the couch, parting her legs. He reached out to touch her between her legs, stroking silky petals, finding her swelling nub. This time a shudder ripped through her.

  Then she startled him. “Trace, enough teasing.” She held up her arms, and he wondered how any man could resist that invitation.

  Moments later he filled her warmth and felt her wrap herself around him. A guy could get used to this.

  Then the world went away.

  Later they cuddled before the fire, still naked. The time was precious. He already felt the ache of impending loss when she left. As of course she would.

  But he realized he never wanted her to go away. A foolish, selfish desire.

  Hillary then did a Hillary thing. She wiggled away from him and reached for her sweater and sweatpants. “It’s time,” she said.

  “Time for what?”

  Her smile was warm. “To move. To caffeinate. To eat something.” She tilted her head. “You were right about this compulsion to eat. I never thought about it before.”

  Laughing, he rose, yearning for more of her but realizing she had other needs right now. Or maybe she sought some distance between them.

  Much as he hated to think about it, he decided she was right. Their separate ways were far too separate.

  He watched her prance from the room—really, it was a prance—and he grinned. She was a hell of a woman.

  They ate slices of the whole pie Maude had given them. Warmed in the microwave, the apple pie was a perfect accompaniment to coffee.

  “Tomorrow,” Trace announced, “we’re going to have to find our way to the grocery. Or Maude’s. I know you don’t like cooking.”

  “I don’t hate it,” Hillary answered. “It’s just not something I’m inclined to do. When my father and I are home at the same time, we take turns cooking for each other. Then it is special.”

  “It would be.”

  She smiled. “Maybe it’s special now, too.”

  Well, that pleased him. Not because he wanted her to cook, but that it might not be a pain right now.

  While he washed up, Hillary disappeared. When she returned, she was garbed for outdoors.

  “Going somewhere?” he asked, suddenly nervous for her.

  “To walk around the outside of the house. It is snowing heavily again.”

  He understood instantly and reached for a towel to dry his hands. “Want me to come along?” He was sure she didn’t, but he was uncomfortable anyway. Of course she wanted to go alone. If someone had been prowling outside, she didn’t want to take a chance that they might reveal their awareness. More, if something happened, one of them had to be free to react.

  Masculine protective urges surged in him, but he battered them down. She wouldn’t appreciate them at all.

  Hillary exited through the mudroom and out the back door. He couldn’t hear a thing, but he didn’t expect to.

  Stealth was their middle name.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, HILLARY STOOD on the snowy stoop, giving her eyes time to adjust to the night. Snow still fell heavily, but the wind didn’t blow, so it wasn’t filling in anywhere feet had stepped. It would cover the divots with a fresh powder, but the depressions would still be there.

  She didn’t believe that guy had given up when they followed him to the truck stop. If he was the man who had killed Allan, he should have left long ago. But someone had stayed and was concerned enough to watch her and Trace. No, he hadn’t given up.

  Same man? It didn’t make a bit of difference to her. A stalker was a stalker. They might pose different kinds of threats, but given what had happened to Allan, she would have gambled that he was here for the same reason.

  At home a night like this would have been an invitation to snap on her cross-country skis. This night she had other matters in mind—more important ones.

  At last her eyes adapted. Her peripheral vision had sharpened, ready to notice any movement to her sides regardless of the nearly lightless world.

  The night had turned shades of blue and gray. Only an occasional snowflake twinkled with rainbow colors as it happened to catch faraway light.

  Now she scanned to both sides. Little light escaped from the house, thanks to those heavy curtains. Here darkness and snow ruled.

  If someone had walked along the back of the house, she couldn’t see it. Shadows weren’t deep enough. The snow was brighter than the sky above, but not enough to overcome her night vision.

  She listened intently. Sounds of distant people and cars reached her. Occasionally she thought she heard a twig crackle, but that was probably from the leafless trees at the back of the yard. At least, that’s where it seemed to come from. Cold could cause branches to protest, and she seriously doubted anyone was up there in those gnarly fingers. Not a good hiding place right now.

  On high alert, her every sense engaged, she stepped slowly off the stoop. She was well practiced at walking through snow without the noise of crunching or swishing. Slow, careful, light steps, following no rhythm. Minimal sound.

  The world slept beneath its winter blanket.

  She moved steadily, first to the left corner, then to the right. If someone had been trying to wa
tch them, he must be disappointed. Not that he’d go away. No, he seemed too determined.

  After she’d covered the entire back of the house without seeing anything untoward, she moved around the right corner. Watching before she moved. Attuned to anything else that moved or that looked too dark against the snow. Nothing.

  But before too long, she saw the first depression in the snow. Right under the kitchen window. Her heart accelerated just a bit.

  Then another and another. Instead of continuing, she retraced her steps and went around to the other side of the house. More dips in the snowfall. A short stride, probably because of the difficulty of moving through the snow.

  A bigger hole beneath one of the bedroom windows.

  She’d seen all she needed to. She headed back to the stoop and went inside. A bootjack by the door offered her an opportunity to kick the snow from her boots, then she entered the kitchen.

  Trace was waiting for her with clear impatience. “Well?”

  “Someone’s been trying to look in the windows. I stopped when I was sure.”

  He swore and looked past her for a few seconds. “He’s becoming bolder.”

  “Or more desperate.”

  She began to strip off her outerwear, eager to get back to that fire with another cup of coffee. Or maybe some hot cider. Creature comforts. She took them when she could.

  “Trace? We are not chasing shadows.”

  “Clearly we’re not. If we could draw this guy out, maybe we’d learn the whole story.”

  Hillary shook her head a bit. “If he’s willing to kill to keep his secret, how much talking will he do?”

  “Maybe he’s keeping someone else’s secret and will talk in an attempt to save his own hide.”

  After hanging up her outerwear, Hillary pulled out a saucepan and poured cider from the gallon jug that was stashed in the pantry. “You want some?”

  “Yeah, please. I’m getting sick to death of coffee. I never thought I’d say that.”