Conard County--Traces of Murder Read online

  The pounding of her feet on the ground felt almost like the rage pounding inside her. A Pandora’s box had opened inside her, unleashing the Valkyrie, the hunter.

  She wanted a battle.

  * * *

  TRACE SENSED THE shift in Hillary. He couldn’t glance at her until they reached level road, but then he did. It was a wonder she hadn’t bared her teeth.

  In that instant he saw the warrior inside her, the one she kept beneath a carefully controlled exterior. As they all had to do, but this was his first true introduction to the woman within. The Valkyrie.

  He’d seen that expression on the face of other soldiers going into battle. During battle.

  As they approached the end of their rapid run, they both breathed heavily. He still managed to ask, “Are you going to start a war?”

  Her blue eyes looked icy. “Against who?”

  That was the problem for them both. No idea where to direct all this rage, all this angry sorrow. They were shadowboxing.

  They went home without seeing that guy, leaving Trace to consider the possibility that they’d both overreacted. He had mixed feelings about that. He wanted a person to focus on but doubted that would be likely. Not after all this time, unless the killer lived in this town. Which, given what Edith had said, seemed extremely unlikely.

  Rage, like a banked fire, burned within him.

  What the hell, Allan?

  * * *

  LATER, HILLARY INTRODUCED Trace to a “Norwegian breakfast” that felt more like a supper to Trace. It had consisted of slices of the hard sausage the butcher had ordered for her, small cubes of Jarlsberg cheese and thick, crunchy crackers.

  “That’s breakfast, huh?” he asked as they headed back to the office.

  She shrugged one shoulder. “Most of us prefer not to eat breakfast at all. You will have a hard time finding any café or restaurant that is open to serve breakfast. We tend to have what you call brunch.”

  “I liked it.”

  She smiled. “You should consider yourself special. That was a buffet style, which is found in hotels.”

  “I’m honored.”

  Her smile turned into a laugh as she took her seat at her side of the desk. When she looked at the stacks of paper, her smile faded, however, and her face turned grim. “Trace?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I may go mad if we don’t find something soon.”

  “Me too.” He had begun to drag the scattered emails into folders by date, most recent first. Initially, it had made him squirm to peek into the love that had flowed electronically between them. Made him feel like a voyeur. Anger had burned out that concern.

  He understood why Allan had opened all this to his scrutiny, however. He doubted that Allan had trusted anyone else to read this intimacy.

  “Damn it, Allan, give me a clue!” He only realized he had spoken aloud when Hillary made a sound. He turned to look directly at her. “Sorry.”

  “Go ahead, Trace. I feel the same way, and I may soon be cursing Brigid.”

  “Maybe it would do us some good to have a minor temper tantrum, stomping our feet and yelling.”

  She laughed outright, her face clearing. “I didn’t think of that. I was wishing for a punching bag.”

  “Better idea. Maybe we can get over to the high school gym and pound them.”

  “Make it a date.”

  Date? Trace wondered how she had meant that. A flicker of hope sprouted inside him, but he tried to stomp it out. He didn’t want to disrespect her with a one-night stand kind of thing.

  He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Unless that was her style?

  Ah, hell, he thought. His mind and body usually bent to his will better than this. But with her so close, her feminine scents enticing him, it was difficult. He’d have liked to escape into her for a few hours. To discover once again one of life’s greatest beauties. To drag himself, and her, out of this ugly swamp they’d walked into.

  After he felt he’d moved all the recent emails into one file and was once again on the edge of going stir-crazy, he found something. His heart sped up.

  “Hillary?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Take a look at this. It’s not much.”

  She scooted her chair over and peered over his shoulder. “Where?”

  Stuck in the middle of some graphic prose, Allan had written, Let it go, sweetheart. Just let it go.

  Hillary read the email twice before saying, “That doesn’t fit. It is out of place.”

  “It might mean almost anything. Maybe a small squabble.”

  “But it doesn’t belong there.”

  He passed his hand over his face. “No, it doesn’t.” Allan was worrying about something. But Trace felt it like a sharp prod. His determination revived, he leaned over the computer again. “Let’s keep going. Whatever it is, Allan tried to bury it.”

  He checked the date again on the email. He’d been out of town. Maybe Allan hadn’t wanted to share the issue, or maybe he’d forgotten all about it.

  Or maybe he’d been too worried to speak about it.

  “When was that email sent?” Hillary asked.

  “Mid-January.”

  “Brigid died in late January.” Her frown deepened. “Too close.”

  “I agree.”

  Something had been going on. Something bad enough to get Brigid killed? Out there that wasn’t impossible. Life began to feel cheap.

  Hillary spoke. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone out there has been killed for no reason.”

  He knew exactly what she meant. “When you pull the cork out of that bottle, it can splash anywhere.”

  “Good analogy.”

  “But this time it sounds like there might have been a reason.”

  “It does.” Her face impassive, she turned back to the stack of letters she’d been compiling. “Maybe it’s time to actually read some of this.”

  * * *

  HOURS LATER, THEY called it quits. The night had grown deep, settling into silence except for the sound of a cold wind whistling around corners and through tiny cracks.

  “Banshee,” Hillary remarked.

  “Are you trying to give me chills?”

  A smile leavened her face. “I doubt you ever get chills.”

  “Neither do you, except possibly when it’s forty below.”

  Her smile became a laugh. “I would like aquavit. You?”

  “It might help get us some sleep.”

  If nothing else, weariness lessened the pressure. There was just so long a person could stay wound up. As Hillary walked to the kitchen, she rotated her shoulders, trying to ease the tightness in them. She was definitely unaccustomed to spending so many hours at a desk.

  The laugh had felt good. Brief as it was, it had unknotted her stomach a bit. She was on the hunt now, deeply involved. That one line in Allan’s email seemed heavy with portent. Dark. She’d known Brigid well, and her friend wasn’t one who needed to be told to forget it over a disagreement.

  Brigid had had a good soul, part of what had drawn Hillary to her. How that soul had survived combat operations, survived risking her neck to escort convoys, survived having to fight, Hillary didn’t know.

  Her own soul had suffered cracks. She knew she wasn’t as forgiving as Brigid had been. Hillary was less ready. She was quick to dismiss someone as an idiot. Or even as evil in an extreme case. She was also quicker to remember, to not forget.

  Her feeling was that when a snake bit you, you shouldn’t go back to playing with the snake.

  Brigid had walked this earth lightly.

  As she sat across from Trace with aquavit, she said, “Brigid was a bright soul. Was she always like that?”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Frustratingly sometimes. She wouldn’t let you get a good mad on. Forget it was
one of her favorite phrases. The other was, Is it important enough to waste your energy on?”

  Hillary nodded, remembering Brigid saying just that. “I admired that in her. I am not so good.”

  “Me neither.”

  Hillary slipped briefly into memory, then returned. “Allan. He was like her?”

  “They were kind of yin and yang. He was... I don’t know how to describe it. He was a lot more reserved. He was harder. You know what I mean.”

  She did. Then a stark thought occurred to her. “That phrase that leaped out of Allan’s email?”

  His gaze grew intent.

  “Allan was harder, you said, but he tossed those words back at her. Maybe it wasn’t a reminder. Maybe it was a warning.”

  Trace tossed back the last of his aquavit. “Hell. I’m awake now. I’m going back to work.”

  Hillary waited just long enough to brew another pot of coffee. Then she followed him with two insulated mugs.

  The hunter inside her had fully roused, and she was on the trail. She would not be deterred.

  * * *

  AS MORNING BEGAN to creep into the cold world, Trace looked at Hillary. She looked back. Fatigue was written on her face, a slight draining of color, but she sat upright, her posture firm. This woman would keep going until she dropped into a coma.

  So would he, probably, but they would quickly become useless. “Operational readiness requires at least some sleep. We both know that.” They both parted to go to their separate rooms. Hillary found it difficult to sleep and wondered if she had just grown too tired. A paradox she had faced before.

  Closing her eyes, she wandered her memories of Brigid. They hadn’t spent a whole lot of time together, as their missions were different and Hillary didn’t spend long periods at the rear base, although for a while she had visited frequently.

  Regardless, their friendship had happened almost explosively. Hillary might never understand how it had happened so fast. It just had.

  Brigid was a dark-haired woman with sherry-colored eyes that seemed to glow from within. She smiled most of the time and appeared to be surrounded by good buddies of all genders.

  But somehow Hillary had leaped into the inner circle. To become someone in whom she could confide, who could confide in her. Even about the locket Brigid kept concealed inside her uniform. A secret.

  For the first time, Hillary wondered just how many secrets Brigid had guarded.

  Hillary rolled over and hugged the other pillow.

  She hadn’t done that since before she joined the Jegertroppen, partly because there was never an extra pillow, and partly because it might be interpreted as softness. Or childishness.

  She didn’t know who she was angrier at—Brigid, because she might have involved herself in a matter that had gotten her killed, or the person who might have arranged it.

  As she hugged the pillow, other thoughts trailed in, mostly thoughts about Trace. He appealed to her on so many levels. Men outside the special forces never really understood, and there was much she couldn’t share.

  Trace crossed those boundaries. She didn’t have to explain, because he knew.

  He was sexy as hell. She wasn’t immune. She’d seen the glint of attraction on his face, but something kept pulling him back, maybe the same thing that kept pulling her back. The distance that would soon lie between them. Half a world.

  She liked him, too. Her practiced impassivity wasn’t too deep for that. Inside her there was also a woman like any other.

  And she wasn’t afraid of fleeting sexual relationships. She’d had a few before. She was the one, usually, who ensured they were fleeting. Giving her heart might be a very stupid thing to do, so she kept it, clinging tightly to it.

  But this would be different. She wouldn’t have to fight her way out or think of a million reasons for leaving. Trace already knew that was coming.

  Maybe, she thought. Warmth filled her just by thinking about it. A warmth full of desire. Of heat.

  She drifted away to sleep at last, thinking about Trace.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, IN THE frigid wee hours, through slight slits in a couple of curtains, Witherspoon watched the lights turn out at last.

  Bundled up against the cold, he thought he resembled one of those puffy cartoon characters found in an ad. Given the temperature out here, he doubted anyone would notice his gear, but they might notice him standing in the yard behind bushes.

  Yet he needed to move on before he froze to death. He’d been out here too long, giving serious thought to breaking into that house while the two of them slept and taking them out.

  Except that taking out two people was a lot more difficult than taking out one. Whoever he shot first, the other was going to come after him. They were both soldiers. He’d heard that late last night in the bar. He knew all about Trace Mullen, about his Airborne background. That man could be serious trouble.

  But a female soldier, according to gossip about her being in the war? He’d never seen them as a serious threat.

  Maybe, just maybe, he could take out Mullen first, then the woman. Hell, she might have been nothing but a glorified paper pusher.

  But still. He had enough sense left to consider two murders to be a dangerous proposition. Enough sense to turn away and walk back to the student apartment he rented. Enough sense to get home before he turned into an icicle.

  If the woman went back to wherever she came from, the problem would be halved. He needed to add that to his planning before he did something he’d truly regret.

  He regretted killing Allan Mannerly. Still, the whispers around town suggested that Mullen still didn’t believe it was suicide. And now the whispers suggested that a whole lot of people in this town were questioning it, too.

  They might have zipped their lips for a while, but they were not zipping them anymore.

  That frightened Witherspoon as well. Too many people were shifting positions for reasons he didn’t know.

  What the hell was going on?

  Once again he thought of moving out, but the mess he might be leaving behind could come back to kill him.

  He was getting to the point of wanting to tear his own hair out. He’d bitten his fingernails to bloody nubs, and now he was chewing his lower lip raw. Making his teeth hurt from grinding them constantly.

  Brigid Mannerly and her husband had gotten the easy part of all this, he decided. An easy, fast death.

  Witherspoon feared he would not be as lucky.

  Chapter Nine

  Two days later, Hillary glanced to her right as she headed for the bathroom. Trace sat on the edge of his narrow bed, a towel wrapped around his waist, displaying a rather respectable six-pack as he pulled a shirt over his head.

  But what she most noticed were the black neoprene knee stabilizers. Given that he never complained about his new knees, she was a little surprised to see those stabilizers. Regardless, he put a lot of tough miles on his legs. He should have been reaching for paracetamol or ibuprofen, but she had never seen him reach for a thing. Tough guy. Not giving an inch.

  Without a word, she grabbed a large blue knapsack she’d found in the bedroom closet. So he wouldn’t wonder, she left a brief note.

  Then she headed to the grocery, determined to remember how to cook well enough that they didn’t need to go out again. She’d never really liked dining out except with a group of friends. Besides, she wanted some different flavors.

  She filled her cart with vegetables and fruit. She was unable to resist the bananas, which must have traveled a very long way, and six fresh, crunchy apples fell into her cart. Amazing, she thought with amusement. As if they might have jumped right in.

  She wasn’t a heavy beef eater, but a really impressive steak looked back at her from the cold case. She bet Trace would like that. In fact, he might even have a preferred way of preparing it. That joined the st
ack in her cart.

  Her shopping list got longer as she went, until she nearly laughed at herself. She must have been craving some things without realizing it.

  She was, however, happy to see Trace come through the door just as she was ready to check out. She knew she had chosen too much to fit in the knapsack and decided it would be easier to carry the rest with help. Grocery bags could have a mind of their own, even with handles. She wished for the net bags she’d used at home.

  He smiled when he saw her. “Looks like you picked up a lot. Hungry?”

  “For something different.”

  “Mind?” He looked through her cart. “Well, I have to confess I can read a recipe. If we can get some potatoes, I’ll brown them in the oven. Do you like rice?”

  “Brown rice.”

  “Coming up.” He also brought a few mixes that looked like they’d provide some muffins or loaves. “We need our carbs.”

  Very true.

  “Are these real bratwursts?” she asked as they passed down the meat aisle again.

  “They’re American bratwurst. I don’t know how that compares to what you’re used to.”

  “I’ll find out.” She watched him put two gallons of milk into the cart, along with chocolate syrup.

  When they left the store, Hillary realized the break had refreshed her. Surprisingly, she looked forward to getting into the kitchen.

  Something besides poring over the files and letters. Two days and they’d found nothing more. She suspected they might already have gone too far back in time. “We need to run through those emails and letters again.”

  “Start to finish,” he agreed. “Man, how elliptical can you get?”

  “Quite a bit, it seems.”

  “Or worse, that whatever it was, they may have Skyped it.”

  She sighed. “That’s a possibility. So now we have to find if there are copies.”