Chapter Nineteen
Jules awoke on a cry of terror, and Sam rolled away from her in the dark, instantly on his feet.
“What?” he asked tensely.
Immediately she remembered where she was. At Sam’s cabin. In Sam’s bed, where they’d moved after their initial lovemaking. “Nothing . . . just dreams . . .”
He slid back under the covers with her, his warm arms pulling her close to his body. It was only faintly light outside, about five a.m.
They’d talked into the night, discussing her neighbors, the laptop password, Mulhaney’s disappearance and the man and woman he’d last been seen with, the boat accident and Joe’s death, Ike Cardaman and the Summit Ridge development, Jules’s slowly returning memory, and Phoenix’s state of health.
They’d also made love twice more by mutual consent. Jules seesawed from elation over this night with Sam, unwilling to look ahead to the future and worry about what it meant, to a low-grade fear over what, and who, was lurking outside the safety of the cabin, someone, or ones, who wished her harm.
Now, curling next to him in the rumpled bedding, she said, “I’m going to have to go back this morning and collect Georgie. Joanie told me she’s got work today, and she’s been leaving Xena sort of in charge of Alexa. She has Jackie check in on them, just in case they fight. You know, the whole teenage girl thing, so I don’t want Georgie spending the day there.” He kissed her hair as she sighed and added, “I owe Joanie for taking her on short notice.”
“Okay.” Was there a hint of regret in his voice? She didn’t blame him; she felt it, too, the desire to throw the covers over their heads and make love all day, tune the rest of the world out and hide in their cocoon, here, away from the world. Which, of course, was impossible. “I’ll take you back as soon as we get up. Sadie said she was available, so I’ll call her and reconfirm.”
Sam had said he was planning to meet with Griff and go over the case. He also wanted to check on Phoenix. If it hadn’t been for Georgie, Jules would have gone with him. Already she didn’t like the idea of them being separated.
“C’mon, darlin’. Much as I’d like to, we can’t stay in bed all day.” He kissed her cheek and she turned to him. “Uh-uh. Don’t make this any harder than it is.” He rolled out of bed, grabbed her hand, and led her to the bathroom.
“Hey!” she cried, almost in protest. “What d’you think you’re doing?” But she knew, before he reached into the shower and twisted on the taps and steam began to roll toward the ceiling. “You’re bad.”
“Just bad enough.” He pulled her under the spray, grabbed a bar of soap and, before she could argue, kissed her, holding her tight with one hand while he lathered her back with the other.
Slick, hot, wet, they kissed hungrily, as if they hadn’t made love in years instead of hours, and as he lifted her up, she carefully wrapped her arm around him and threw her head back, lost in the feel and touch of him making love beneath the needle-sharp spray. Jules never wanted this moment to end and was sorry when she had to re-dress in the jeans and navy blouse that Sam had brought her yesterday. Seemed like a lifetime ago. So many things had happened in a short period of time.
Less than an hour later, as they were driving back down the coast, Jules opened a window, letting the salt air dry her hair. The patchy part that had been shaved to allow stitches was blown away from her face and she pulled it back in place, slightly embarrassed. Silly to be so consumed with her looks with everything that was going on, but she didn’t want to look like a haggard mess in front of Sam.
At Salchuk, they stopped in for breakfast at the Spindrift. Sam recommended the huevos rancheros and Jules managed to make her way through most of her meal, savoring the spicey sauce, trying not to stare at Sam across the table. She was all too aware of him and wondered, fleetingly, what would have happened had they never broken up? Would they be married, have children now? Or would their relationship have eventually dissolved or become old and tired? And what about Joe? Too many questions, she thought, pushing her plate away and realizing her feelings for Joe had never run this deep. Guilt chased through her brain, but she firmly pushed it away. Joe was gone, and he would want her to find happiness. That much she knew.
“Ready?” Sam said, and she thought for a second, as he held her gaze, that he might have read her thoughts. Ridiculous.
They held hands on the way back to his truck, Jules aware how much she never wanted the contact to end. Sam made her feel safe, and loved. Joe had, too, she realized as she climbed into the passenger seat, feeling sadness at the loss, elation at the rekindling of her romance with Sam, and beneath it all an underlying sense of fear. Whoever had murdered Joe and maimed both her and Phoenix was still out there. Waiting. Lurking. One step ahead.
They’d barely got going again, the road stretching out ahead, when Sam’s cell rang and Jules handed it to him. He looked at the number, said, “It’s Detective Stone,” then clicked it on to speaker and placed it in the cup holder, as he said, “Sam Ford. I’m here with Jules Ford. You’re on speaker.”
“Stone, here. You got the sheriff on board with your theories yesterday,” he said. “Didn’t know if that was gonna happen, but it did. We doubled our efforts on the cameras nearby the marina and hospital and finally picked up somebody buying gas in a can from Mayfield about five days ago. He’s in a hoodie and jeans. Also got a picture from the hospital, same thing. Guy in a hoodie and jeans. Can’t really see who he is, but I’m texting both shots to your phone.”
“Great work. Thanks.” He clicked off and said, “So Mayfield did sell someone gas, but it wasn’t on Wednesday.”
They heard the ding of an incoming text and Sam asked Jules to scroll through to the correct screen while he kept driving. She touched the most recent text and pulled up several black and white pictures. She focused on the one from the hospital camera first. It looked like the man in the hoodie had been aware of the camera from the way he ducked his head. His nose stuck out, but that was all she could see of his face. Her eye traveled over his build, and she felt a buzz of recognition, but couldn’t put it together. She’d seen him somewhere. Maybe knew him. She was sure of it.
Quickly, she scrolled to the next photo. In it a young man in shorts and a T-shirt was standing on the marina dock, handing a gas can to another man who wore an identical hoodie and jeans to the man in the hospital photo. Though the sun was bright and the water sparkled, the man reaching for the can was covered head to toe. A disguise, she thought, again feeling that tantalizing zing of forgotten memory.
“He look familiar?” Sam asked, glancing at the phone, then looking back at the road.
Jules stared at the hoodie. Gray. She couldn’t see a label. She went back and forth between the two photos, enlarging them to get a closer look at his face, but it was hidden. Still . . . the jeans . . . and those sneakers . . . She narrowed her gaze at them. Dark Nikes, maybe, probably black.
With silver . . . on the boat . . . walking toward her as she lay on the deck . . .
“You weren’t supposed to be here, Julia.”
She sucked in a startled breath and nearly dropped the phone.
“Who?” Sam asked before she could even speak.
“Those shoes . . . the guy on the boat wore those shoes . . . and a hoodie,” she said in a shocked voice, her heart drumming wildly, fear curling in her stomach. “I remember I saw him. . . . I saw him. . . . He came at me. Oh, holy God, it’s Stuart Ezra . . . !”
* * *
P. J. Simpson was having a crisis of conscience. He was staring slack jawed at the morning news. She survived? Phoenix Delacourt survived? She’d looked so dead that it hadn’t even crossed his mind that she could live.
He sat at the end of the motel bed and stared down at his toes in abject misery. He’d confronted Joe and that hadn’t worked. And he’d tried to kill Phoenix—which he couldn’t even believe now!—and that hadn’t worked.
What did you expect? And Joe was never going to give you the money anyway.
He shook his head. Thought of all the years he’d spent playing the role of the pauper, waiting for that big win. Maybe he could’ve taken out his money when Joe went out on his own, but questions would have been raised, and anyway, he’d had tons more money to make. He’d known he could do it. Transform thousands into a million, one million into two, two into three, four, five, ten . . . !
You got greedy.
He choked out a sob. After all the shit he’d put up with? All the terrible years? All the sideways looks and raised eyebrows by people who considered him a lesser being?
And then that phone call last night, where that lowlife Tom accused him of misrepresenting himself. Misrepresenting himself? All he had to do was get his hands on his own money and he could afford whatever he wanted. He just couldn’t do it!
God, it was FRUSTRATING!
In a fit of fury he stood up and stalked to the bathroom, ripping off the mustache he’d painstakingly applied just a few minutes earlier. What good was a disguise when Phoenix would remember who she’d met with right before she was pushed into the ditch! Everything would unravel. He couldn’t count on her having lost memories like Julia. Lightning never struck twice. No, Phoenix would remember him, all right, and she’d be on his trail like a bloodhound.
There was only one course of action and that was to approach Julia directly, be as honest as he dared.
Killing her now wouldn’t help, and he didn’t want to anyway. She held the purse strings and if she was gone . . . who would be in charge of Joseph Ford Investments? Who would be in charge of his money? Not Joe’s adopted daughter; she was too young. A much more likely candidate would be Joe’s brother, Samuel Ford, and he already knew that was a nonstarter. The man had been a cop, and there was no negotiating with cops unless they were dirty, and even then it was a risky proposition. And from all accounts Sam Ford was squeaky clean.
Fuck! He shook his head woefully. No, he had to confront Julia. Alone. And hope she made the right decision.
* * *
Stuart Ezra? Sam wrenched the wheel and pulled off the highway at a wide spot in the road when Jules made her announcement.
“Stuart Ezra. You’re certain?” he demanded as he stopped the truck on the side of Fifth Street and threw it into park.
“Yes . . . yes . . . pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure?” he questioned sharply.
“No, sure. Completely sure . . .” Her mind was reeling, images tumbling one after another. “He was on the boat. Oh, my God, Sam. He was on the boat!”
“With you and Joe?”
“Yes!”
“Stuart Ezra was on the boat with you and Joe when it caught fire,” he clarified. “You remember it?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. And it’s a real memory.”
“Jesus. Stuart Ezra . . .” He went silent, thinking hard.
You weren’t supposed to be here, Julia. . . .
“He was surprised to see me. He thought Joe would be alone on the boat.”
“How did he get on the boat?”
“He . . .” She squeezed her eyes closed, pushing it, needing to know. She was lying on the deck . . . his black Nikes coming toward her, and Joe . . . Joe’s body was in a heap in her line of vision, blood pooling on the deck, mixing with water....
“He . . . Stuart . . . was having trouble with his boat . . . a small speedboat. . . . I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before, at his house.... I don’t . . .”
“He was in a speedboat out on the water,” Sam said, seeking to corral her thoughts.
“Yes. He had a gas can, but he said his boat wasn’t running. Something else wrong with it. He needed help. He asked to come aboard.”
Permission to come aboard, Captain Ford, he’d said jauntily.
Jules’s eyes filled with tears. The gray veil had lifted, and the memories were coming fast and hard. “Joe let him on our boat. Helped him on. My head was hurting.... I had an ice pack, I think. When Stuart came aboard he had the gas can . . . which was weird. Joe said to just leave it, but he swung it and hit Joe across the head, threw him to the deck. . . .”
“He purposely hit my brother with the gas can?” Sam repeated in a hard voice.
“Yes. He went down and Stuart hit him again. I screamed and then . . . then Stuart looked at me. I’d been sitting and I scrambled to my feet and then I slipped, fell to the deck. I’d fallen before. . . .”
She could see the Nikes coming at her. Was powerless to get up. Behind those feet, Joe moving . . . staggering to his feet....
“Stuart grabbed me, yanked me up . . . k-k-kissed me . . . pressed me against the rail . . . and then he upended me. . . . Threw me overboard. . . .”
The shock of ice cold water covering her head. The taste of salt in her mouth. “I was in the water . . . swimming . . . and there was a life preserver. . . .”
Joe. Joe had thrown it to her. She could see him climbing to his feet, stumbling toward her as Stuart pressed against her, ran his hands over her body. Joe failing to reach her in time, the life preserver his last effort to save her.... “He killed Joe, Sam,” she said, voice quavering. “Stuart killed Joe.”
Sam’s face was set. Without a word he rammed the truck in drive again, turned around and got back on the highway heading south toward Fisher Canal, his eyes lasered on the ribbon of road in front of him. He muttered, “Where’s Ezra now? His job . . . he’s in sales of some kind . . .”
“Medical-equipment sales. Why . . . why did he do it?” she asked.
“I bet it’s about the money. People wanted to believe it was Joe’s fault they lost money.” He drove with a kind of controlled ferocity. “Was Stuart’s name in the Cardaman file?”
“I—I don’t know. I never looked it over closely. It was just a bunch of names and numbers. I gave it to Phoenix. I wanted her to fix it all.”
“Ezra must’ve blamed Joe for losing his money, just like everyone else did. The difference is, he acted on it. Took it to another level. Killed him because of it.” Sam’s voice was flint hard. “We need to know about the Ezras’ finances. And we need to know where he is right now!”
“He came to the hospital to finish the job,” Jules realized. “He never thought I’d survive. I shouldn’t have survived.”
“Thank God you did.” He slipped her a warm look. “Jesus, the Ezras live right next to you, Jules. I shouldn’t take you anywhere near there!”
“No, we have to go back! I’ve got to get Georgie!” She felt a new panic now, tried to stay calm, but the horror of that day on the boat, the knowledge that Stuart had deliberately killed Joe, who had tried to save her.... She swallowed against tears, refused to back down as Sam drove, hands clenched over the steering wheel, jaw set hard.
“I know. We will. We’ll go to Joanie’s and pick her up. Use my phone. Call Georgie and tell her we’re on our way. Make sure she’s ready to go. Then I’ll call Griff, put him on finding Ezra. . . .”
* * *
It had been a long, long night and he was filled with an underlying fear that had shaped his life since he was a kid. Fear of his old man beating him for screwing his stepmother . . . fear of being caught breaking into homes around the neighborhood and stealing drugs . . . fear of being found cheating his way through community college courses . . . But the fear in itself was a high. He loved balancing on the knife’s edge of danger. Knowing he could be found out at any moment. It was an added sexual thrill he craved like an addict.
It was barely light out as Stuart slid from the bed and looked at the woman lying on the pillows, her dark hair fanned out around her face. Jackie Illingsworth . . . ah, man . . . His mind traveled along the pathways of their relationship, including last night when they’d screwed for the last few times, culminating in the scarf that he’d wound tightly around her neck.
He touched his own throat where that blood-red scarf now hung as he dragged on his jeans, pulled his T-shirt over his head, put on the gray hoodie that his wife had tried to throw away once. He’d had to fight himself from beating her senseless over his lucky sweatshirt. Luckily, he’d just managed to keep control, hang on to his facade. He was like Batman, by day a mild-mannered sales rep, chatting up the women he met on his job, shaking hands with the men, clapping them on the back, using his spare time to work out, making friends with everyone at the club where he’d met his lovely wife, Bette, watching her through the window into the yoga studio. He’d wooed her with everything he had. He’d desired her toned body, her flexibility. She’d been perfect for him and he’d had to have her. He’d even thought being with her might be enough. Everybody, but everybody, loved him, and for a time, he’d traveled the straight and narrow, lived a so-called normal life.
But . . . the old need for fear, danger, to heighten the senses was an addiction that had never let him go.
So he’d started fooling around. A woman here, another there. When Bette had wanted to move to the canal, he’d balked. Too suburban. Too removed from his hunting grounds, which were small enough in Seaside already. He needed a bigger city, like Portland, or Seattle, or maybe south to San Francisco or Los Angeles, where the pickings were plentiful.
But Bette had started to suspect something, had wanted the move, so he’d had no choice but to go along with it. Luckily, there were unhappy women living all around him. Tutti had come on strong and he’d thought about hitting that, but Jackie was a better prospect. She was unhappy with her life, too. Bored with her husband, Rob, father of the year. Jackie felt disenfranchised from Rob and the boys, but she didn’t go on and on about Rob the way Tutti did about “the bastard,” her ex, Dirk Anderson.
He and Jackie had started a little tickle. Nothing much. It just kind of waxed and waned. Rob had begun to suspect something was going on between them, he knew, and Tutti, jealous, had picked up on their sexual chemistry and started rumors. Stuart had been pissed about that. Had wanted to confront Tutti, maybe give her what she was begging for, but she was always unavailable, with her two sons, the video game morons, whereas Jackie’s boys were quieter, more well behaved. The whole Illingsworth family was worried about Jackie’s drinking and bonding together over the problem, forcing her away from them with their “good intentions.” Stuart had half expected some kind of intervention, and he’d backed off from Jackie, big-time. Too messy. He’d basically ended their affair and had his eye out for someone else, something new.
But then . . . that day at the lookout, and the matching Hofstetters, Jerry and Jeri. Holy God! His life had changed in one second. His old pal fear had reentered big-time and he’d welcomed the shivery sensation as he helped push those annoying tourists over the edge. He’d never been so high.
But now . . . a serious problem.
He threw a glance at Jackie, her face white with death. They’d used the scarf on each other, first on him, then on her, ostensibly to increase her sexual pleasure, and after she’d choked, fought, and stilled, he’d pulled the scarf from around her neck and wrapped it around his own, trying fruitlessly to yank it tight enough to limit oxygen while masturbating, but it just hadn’t worked. He’d desperately wanted to regain the high she’d just given him by damn near strangling him with it in the midst of sex.
The problem was, she’d really intended to strangle him! He’d seen it in her eyes as she rode him. She’d screamed loud enough at her own climax to get the guy in the room next to them to bang on the wall, which had her laughing like a banshee. But the shock of her intent had nearly ruined his enjoyment. Luckily, he’d managed to finish before she actually asphyxiated him. Furious, he’d shoved her off him and dragged in a long, tortured gasp of air, his lungs near to bursting. She’d tried to laugh it off, tell him that she would never have let it go that far, but he’d seen her eyes and knew differently. That’s when he’d removed the scarf from his own neck and wrapped it around hers, yanking and pulling and twisting while she bucked and struggled beneath him, her eyes bulging, her fingernails raking the skin on his hands till he bled.
Which was a damn nuisance because now there was blood on the sheets. His DNA-rich blood.
He’d just been so angry! Not only at her but at the man, that fucker P. J. Simpson, a goddamn charlatan! The bastard had tried to take out Phoenix himself. Unbelievable! And he’d done a piss poor job of it to boot. And now . . . all the money P. J. owed Stuart was at risk.
Stuart knew. He’d talked to P. J. On the phone last night the guy had sounded like he was coming undone. He hadn’t met with Stuart because he didn’t have the money he owed him, and he’d whined about his failure with Phoenix, moaning that he’d fucked things up so much, it looked like he was never going to get his money. Stuart had worried P. J. was going to actually break down and cry. Some man, all right.
“I’ve got one more play, though,” P. J. had told him, pulling himself together at the last minute. “Julia Ford.”
Stuart had wanted to reach through the phone line and throttle him. He’d respected the man. Believed in him. And he’d been taken by him.
Nobody took Stuart Ezra.
“I said I’d do it,” Stuart had growled. “How the fuck are you going to take care of her? You failed with Phoenix already!”
“I’m not going to kill Julia, Tom,” he’d sneered, growing some balls. “And it’s lucky you didn’t, either.”
There was unspoken blame inside his words that had made Stuart burn with rage. His daily affable persona had been stripped away. He’d decided right then and there that P. J. had to go, too, and he would love nothing better than to rip the man’s head off.
And so he’d taken his frustration out on Jackie. She’d pissed him off, too, and now . . . now . . . what the hell was he going to do with her? Maybe he could cram her in the Civic’s trunk, maybe not. And what about security cameras? This motel Jackie had chosen wasn’t top drawer, by a long shot, but there were bound to be a few security cameras around. There always were.
It was a hell of a conundrum and he didn’t have tons of time. How was he supposed to get Jackie’s body out of here? If only he had a wheelchair . . . He also needed to wipe the place down and get rid of the sheets, make sure there was no trace of DNA.
Jackie had paid cash. He’d watched her from the car. But she’d had to give the older woman with the caftan and the seen-it-all expression a credit card number for incidentals. Incidentals, in this fleabag motel? They were lucky they hadn’t gotten bedbugs, but Jackie loved the lowness of it. She was like that. A rich bitch who got off on getting dirty. Still, it added a layer of secrecy that helped keep him anonymous, and he needed to keep it that way.
He went out to the Civic to get the bottle of bleach he always kept on hand in a plastic grocery bag inside the trunk, grabbing it from where it was caught beneath the shovel that he also kept handy. But as he returned to the room and turned the corner of the hall, his neighbor from the room next door appeared. What the fuck was he doing up this early? Stuart’s heart pumped madly, and he walked directly past his own room; he didn’t want the man to see him, know he was the occupant of the room that he’d banged on the wall. But the guy, fiftyish, sent him a wolfish smile anyway. “Quite a woman you got there,” he said, not fooled for a minute as he strolled back the way Stuart had come.
Shit.
As soon as the guy was out of sight, Stuart reversed and beelined to his room. He had to get Jackie out of here!
He nearly had a heart attack when he opened the door and she was sitting up on the bed and staring at him as he walked in.
“Jackie!” he burst out, closing the door behind him as quickly as possible. Oh, shit. Oh, God. Oh, fuck.
She didn’t move other than to blink.
“Jackie?” he asked cautiously.
She opened her mouth and said, “Wha—wha—wha . . .”
He froze for a moment, eyeing her from across the room. Something wrong there. Lack of oxygen to the brain.
“Can you get up, sweetheart?” he asked, moving toward her, his brain whirling. Her clothes were on the floor and he picked up the scrap of underwear and push-up bra.
“Wha . . .” she said. The ligature mark around her neck was clear. He suspected he might look the same way.
“Gotta get dressed, babe. Get outta here. Rob’s gonna be wondering where you are. And the boys. Gotta get back to the kids, right?” She’d told him that Rob had taken the boys on a camping trip, more family bonding, and Jackie was supposedly staying with her sister in Astoria and going to some concert with her. She was apparently due to be back early this morning to babysit for Joanie Bledsoe’s nubile preteens, but then she’d died . . . so that wasn’t going to happen. Except she wasn’t quite dead.
He handed her the bra but she looked like she didn’t know what to do with it. Feeling time ticking by, Stuart fumbled around until he got the damn thing on. He was a helluva lot better at taking them off than putting them on. After the bra, the panties and finally the dress. He eyed the high heels. She teetered in them at the best of times, even with only a couple of drinks. They would be no use to him now.
Dressed, she just sat on the edge of the bed. He placed the scarf back around her neck, covering the red line around her throat, the pièce de résistance.
Then he pulled out the bleach, and with breaks to shoot constant looks at her, making sure she was still sitting there, which she was, he cleaned the bathroom.
He moved from the bathroom to the bedroom, wiping off the surfaces as he went, while Jackie just sat passively by. His own throat was sore where she’d wrapped the scarf around her hand and yanked hard, teeth clenched. He rubbed it, and felt angry all over again.
Tossing the rag in the garbage bag, he growled, “Let’s get you out of here,” pulling her to her feet and walking her to the door.
“Wha—wha—” she said.
He almost felt bad for her, and kind of elated. He stood her by the door, then stripped the bed, wrapping up the bedding into a huge ball. How to get Jackie and the bedding out the door? He would have to take two trips.
So thinking, he walked her back to the bed and sat her down. He tightened the ball of bedding into as small a wad as he could make it, then carried it under his arm and ducked out to the Civic, which was parked at the back of the motel. He didn’t see any cameras on this side. Maybe they only had them in the front of the motel? There was nothing back here . . . at least he hoped so.
He returned for Jackie, who had fallen over on her side. He sat her up again, annoyed, and starting to get buzzy with fear. What was he going to do with her? He got her to her feet, then grabbed her cell phone where it was lying on the nightstand, made sure it was still powered off, and slipped it back into her purse. Then he snagged her high heels and the purse, which was damn heavy. Damn heavy . . . hmmm.
He looked inside and got another distinct shock. A gun.
She had a gun?
He pulled the small firearm from the bag, saw that it was loaded. “Jesus Christ, Jackie, what were you thinking!” he demanded furiously. He slipped the gun back inside the purse and hefted its strap over his shoulder. Deceitful bitch.
He gave a last look around the space, making sure there was nothing left. At the last minute, he remembered the bleach, and had to leave Jackie standing there, staring at the door, to go back into the bathroom for it. He put it back into its grocery bag, which he’d left by the tub, rolled the top closed, and held it under his arm.
Then he came back for Jackie. Her hair was a mess and her makeup was smeary. He patted her hair down a little bit. It still held that “I’ve been rode hard” look. Still, that was as good as it was going to get.
They headed out to the car, him guiding her with his right hand, her purse over his left arm, the garbage bag beneath it, his fingers dangling the heels. It was tricky stuff because Jackie wasn’t walking too well. One leg was a little wiggly. Had to move slow. He held the outside door for her, inwardly begging her to hurry, hurry, hurry the fuck up!
At the car, he opened the Civic’s back door and dumped the shoes, garbage bag, and her purse inside—thought better about the purse and hung on to it. Then, he helped Jackie into the passenger seat, belting her in. “Don’t want anything to happen to you,” he said with a wink. He tucked the purse into the footwell, positioning it so it was easy for him to grab from the driver’s side.
As they drove out of the motel, he saw the security camera. He ducked his head as they passed under it, but was afraid maybe he hadn’t been quite quick enough. And Jackie sure didn’t know how to hide her identity.
Stuart sighed, his gut gnawing at him. What about the guy in the next room with his smug attitude? He’d sure got a good look at him.
Immediately he shook his head. Nope. There was nothing to worry about. Things had been going his way, like they always had and they always would. He was a winner. He got things done. He was the man, not that old fart!
And then he knew what he would do with Jackie.
He drove through Seaside and onto Highway 26, heading east.
“Got just the place for you, babe,” he said. No one had found Denny Mulhaney yet, so why not add Jackie to the mix?
She said, “Wha—”
“You just keep saying that. He’s not much of a conversationalist, either,” Stuart said, relaxing a tiny bit. He was going to have to get rid of this stolen license plate. Find a new one. Maybe get rid of the Civic entirely.
But it was amazing how good he felt. Once he got rid of Jackie, and the car—God he wished he could hang on to it, but ah, well—he would be home free. He would take the Civic back to the For Sale lot and switch to his Trailblazer. With P. J. failing him, he might have to come up with a new plan for achieving his goals, but overall, he was golden. Nobody could touch him.
Except...
What the hell had P. J. meant when he brought up Julia Ford?
I’ve got one more play, he’d said.
Somehow that sounded like a bad, bad idea. What was in P. J.’s mind? Did he think he could use Julia to wangle his money back . . . ? Talk her into opening the vault, or whatever the fuck he thought she could do? Not likely. Whatever the case, Julia was on Stuart’s kill list no matter what the man . . . the old man thought.
Forty minutes later he turned onto the road that led to Mulhaney’s burial ground and nearly ran over a couple of early morning hikers who screamed at him, one of them lifting her pole at him like an insect trying to ward him off.
He slammed on the brakes and Jackie’s forehead hit the dash. What the fuck had happened to the seat belt? Damned thing had jammed before. Shit. What good was it?
Immediately the hikers came to help. They rapped on the passenger window as Stuart, pulse roaring in his ears, pulled Jackie back into position.
“She okay?” one of the women asked. Middle-aged. Looked like the kind who just was itching to call 911 over any goddamn thing.
“Whaaaaaaa . . .” Jackie said, looking at them.
“Hit her head,” Stuart called back to her. He wanted to run the nosy fuckers over. Jesus. Jackie had barely touched the damn thing, and now they probably thought she needed help. Shit! What was he going to do now? “Nothing serious.” He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “She’s okay.”
While they eyed him through the windshield, he leaned over and kissed Jackie on the cheek. Pay attention, fuckers. We’re in love. To his delight, Jackie chose that moment to lean into him.
He nodded to the hikers. See?
They seemed satisfied, sort of, and he surreptitiously straightened Jackie in her seat, then patted her hand and waved off the hikers, before backing out the way he’d come in. The hikers stood in the road, watching him disappear. Once on the highway, he continued east toward Portland, taking his time. Half an hour later he doubled back, returning to the road. The hikers were nowhere to be seen now, luckily, but as he drove carefully and slowly, the Civic bumping down the ruts, he tried to remember exactly where he’d dropped off Denny. Here, in the sun-dappled woods, where old-growth Douglas firs and scraggly pines dominated, everything was looking the same. Where the hell had they ditched the body? He began to sweat. Worried. Thinking for a millisecond that it might have been found by hikers or tree huggers, like the two he’d just seen.
Calm down. Think. He’s here, damn it.
It took him a while to find anything that looked familiar when he spied a stump that he thought he’d seen before. He decided to search on foot and had to leave Jackie in the car while he scoured the forest. Nervous at leaving her alone, swatting at a fly that buzzed around his neck, perspiring despite the shade of the forest floor, he tromped around the woods searching, feeling the pressure of time ticking by. Then he found the familiar, slight mound. Looked better than he’d thought, and nothing had been disturbed since they’d dropped Mulhaney. He let out a pent-up breath. So far so good.
And now for Jackie.
He hurried back to the spot where he parked and sucked in a shocked breath when he spied her, standing outside the car.
Holy. Shit.
She was a silent statue, staring at him across the vehicle’s hood. A slight smile curved her lips. For a split second he saw his life flash before his eyes.
He stood frozen. A deer in the headlights as she slowly lifted her hand. He saw the gun. Waited to be shot point blank.
“Wha—” she said.
He closed his eyes. Braced for the shot.
And nothing happened.
He opened his eyes again, his gaze dropping to her hand. No gun. His fucking imagination had nearly given him a heart attack.
“Jesus,” he muttered, then grabbed the motel blankets and sheets from inside the car, intending to bury them, too. He hooked his arm through Jackie’s and half walked, half dragged her to Mulhaney’s grave. He laid the blankets atop the slight mound, then made Jackie lie down atop them. He thought he saw worry in her eyes.
“We’re just going to pick up where we left off,” he whispered, unbuckling his jeans and getting between her legs, pulling off her panties. When he was settled atop her, he kissed her lips.
“Wh—” she started to say, but he wrapped his hands in the scarf, twisting again.
“No time to talk,” he crooned, kissing her straining neck, as he twisted and twisted. Die, bitch, just fucking die!
She feebly clawed at his hands again, but there was no real energy left as her eyes rolled back into her head. Stuart gave her the rocking and rollicking send-off she deserved, aware he was going to have to pull out the shovel and get to work, but what the hell? Almost better than working out at the gym.