Authors: Judith E. French
"No, let him go," Daniel said. "Even if he has the
boy and we do catch up with him, he'll never tell us
where the child is."
"He'll talk for me. I guarantee that," Will said.
"I doubt it. A few years back, Lucas was captured in
Somalia. They tortured him for thirteen days. Starved
him, staked him in the desert. He never told them a
thing." He met Will's gaze. "On the fourteenth day,
Lucas escaped, killed five men, and crawled for two
days to the pickup site. When they airlifted him to a
hospital in Pretoria, he had a broken femur, a shattered jaw, and a dislocated shoulder."
"Maybe he isn't as tough as you think," Bailey flung
back. "I beat the sh-... Well, let's say I bent that
loose bathroom towel bar over his head and messed
up his face. He'll be lucky if I didn't blind him."
Amusement danced in Will's blue eyes. "Did you,
girl? Now, that's something. More of your mother in
you than I suspected."
"You'll contact the agency, won't you?" she urged
Daniel. "They can't condone this sort of-"
"Lucas isn't with the agency anymore. He vanished
months ago. Last December, when they called me in to
the office, they were asking about him. Same in the
spring."
"All the more reason you should tell them," Bailey
said.
"Maybe. Maybe not."
Bailey sighed in frustration. "When exactly did you
learn about the baby?"
Just before Karen's murder."
Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "Do you think it's a coincidence that Lucas reappears on Tawes and
then she's the victim of a random street crime?"
"Maybe Bailey's got something. Maybe this hired
killer had a hand in the murder," Will suggested.
"It's possible, but I doubt it. It's not his style. He's
usually not that messy."
"No? It seems I recall another death that wasn't so
clean," Bailey reminded him.
"That was different. What happened last summer
was quick, and it could be passed off as hit and run.
Karen's murder was different. She was bludgeoned to
death. There would have been blood spatterevidence. If Lucas were the killer, he would have gone
to her house when she was asleep and garroted her. Or
shot her."
"I was certain he meant to kill me," Bailey said.
He shook his head. "If he had, you'd be dead. No, it
was a message to me that he's serious."
"We have to tell the police," she insisted.
"I doubt that Lucas is a danger to anyone but me,"
Daniel said. "He isn't a madman. And he's not irrational. But I'm not taking any more chances with you.
I'm not letting you out of my sight until this is finished."
"Finished how?" she asked. "Can't we just go to the
police? Or the C.I.A.?"
"It's too risky. If I called in the agency, they might
catch him or they might not. But Lucas would take it
as a professional insult. He wouldn't rest until he'd
gotten satisfaction."
"Satisfaction?"
"Killing both of you," Will supplied.
The fear Bailey had thought gone crept back. Her
arms prickled with gooseflesh as she saw the two men
she loved most in the world exchange meaningful
glances. "You promised me, Daniel. You promised me
all this was over."
Will knelt and scratched Puzzle behind the ears.
"How do you want to handle this?"
"I'll wait, keep Bailey safe. Lucas will get in touch
with me. He won't give up the possibility of all that
cash so easily."
"You're not going to pay him?" Bailey's eyes widened
in surprise. "Blackmail? And where would you get that
much money?"
"Trust me, hon. I'll handle this."
"Sure you will. I can see what awonderfuljob you've
done so far."
Buck's SUV was parked in a secured area at one of the
smaller Crisfield marinas. Within two hours of docking the boat, they'd driven north to Salisbury and
completed the shopping. "We can pick up anything
else you think of after we eat," Buck said as he loaded
Abbie's new tent and camping gear into the back.
"What are you in the mood for?"
He'd been right. She was hungry. They decided on
Mexican, and ten minutes later, they were sitting at a
table in a crowded restaurant and perusing the menu.
"What do you suggest?"
A lazy smile transformed him from attractive to
sexy. "I like it all. Surprise me."
The waitress took their drink orders-beer for him,
iced tea for her-and brought spicy salsa and chips.
Diego's was noisy, but their booth gave them enough
privacy to talk without shouting.
Abbie touched his hand. "Thanks. You made it all
easy. What would I have done without you?"
He beamed. "You'd have managed. I doubt that you
let anything stand in your way once you decide to do
something."
"You make me sound formidable."
"Aren't you?"
"I like you, Chief Davis." She smiled. "Even if your
name is Buck."
"And I like you, even if you are a hostile."
The waitress brought their drinks and wrote down
Abbie's requests. "I hope you're hungry," she said.
"I'm not much of a drinker-that Indian thing-but
I'll wager I can eat you under the table."
"Haven't seen much of this appetite at Miss
Emma's."
She folded her arms and rested her elbows on the
colorful tablecloth. "Have you heard anything more
from the detectives? Anything new?"
He shook his head.
"And you won't. Not if they're looking in Philadelphia."
Buck removed the section of lime from the lip of his
beer bottle and took a sip.
"You don't like lime?"
"In iced tea. Not in my beer."
She took a sip of her iced tea and added sweetener.
Near the kitchen, a server placed a candlelit confection in the center of a crowded table while a procession of waitresses in red and green dresses clapped
and sang "Happy Birthday" to a white-haired Hispanic
woman in a wheelchair.
Buck waited until the cheers and laughter of wellwishers had subsided before saying, "There were two
hundred and fifty murders in the city last year. A lot of
them will never be solved."
"It's not just my mother. There's Sean Gilbert."
"I'm still waiting for the boy's autopsy report. But
drownings happen all too often on the bay."
She laid her hand on top of his. He had large hands,
nicely shaped, not clumsy as some big men's hands
were. Her mother had always said you could tell a lot
about a man by his hands. Buck's were spotlessly clean with a fine dusting of red-gold hair on the back and
nails filed straight across.
"It's hard," she said. "I keep forgetting that she
isn't ..." Her vision blurred and she blinked back
gathering tears. "Sorry." She wiped her eyes with a tissue from her purse. "I thought I was past that."
"Same way with my dad. It comes back when you
least expect it."
She nodded. "I think of something I want to tell her,
and then I realize I can't. I'll never be able to."
"Missing them-it never goes away. Maybe it's not
supposed to."
"It's not fair."
"Nope."
"When did you lose your father?"
"I was a sophomore in college."
"Illness?"
"Car accident. Dad was a reservist. Coast Guard. On
his way to a weekend training exercise. Drunk ran a
light and hit him broadside."
"I'm sorry."
"The driver had just gotten out of jail for another
DUI. Hadn't even gotten his license back."
"Does it get better? Do you ever stop missing them
so bad you want to die yourself?"
He turned his hand over and squeezed hers. "It gets
better. It doesn't go away, but it gets better."
"The difference is, you knew who to blame."
"Don't waste your life hating a shadow."
"What would it take to make you believe me-to
make you see that Anati's death wasn't a random
killing?"
"Facts. Solid, indisputable facts."
"That's fair. And if I can produce facts, you'll help
me find her killer?"
"Deal."
She leaned over and brushed his cheek with a kiss.
Buck caught her arm. "I think we can do better than
that." He kissed her mouth.
Abbie closed her eyes and savored the taste of his
lips, mingled with the flavor of the salsa, salt, and Mexican beer. "I don't suppose you know of a nice motel
near here ..."
"Thought you'd never ask."
They left a trail of clothing from the door to the bed.
Buck barely got the door closed before she stepped out of her shorts and yanked her tee over her head.
She was wearing a bra today, but it wasn't much more
than a handful of lace. Her thong panties left little to
the imagination.
He was as hot for her as she was for him. He
groaned as she nibbled her way down his chest and
dropped to her knees. He was full and ready and
breathing in deep gasps, but she stroked and kissed
him past the point of no return.
There was nothing tender in their lovemaking tonight. Her need was raw and his was driving. When he
pressed her back against the heaped pillows, she was
wet and sobbing with wanting him. But Buck had
other ideas. He spread her legs wide and buried his
head between her thighs. She gasped when she felt the
touch of his warm tongue. He knew all the right
places. As he was so fond of saying, he aimed to please.
She wasn't disappointed.
They had sex again and shared laughter in the
shower. Buck Davis had a great sense of humor, and he
was no slouch when it came to stamina or knowing
what a woman liked best.
Later, he held her, stroked her hair, and listened as
she talked about small things she and her mother had
done together-burnt dinners, flat tires, fishing trips when no one had remembered to bring hooks. He was
as good a listener as he was a lover. When they finally
fell asleep sometime in the wee hours, she slept, really
slept, and had no bad dreams to haunt her in the
morning.
Forest found Emma's mother in her henhouse gathering eggs. Her sheepdog barked a greeting, and he
waited for Aunt Birdy to realize she had company.
"Morning," she called. "Who is it?"
"Just me. Forest. You're out and about early." He
stepped aside as she made her way out of the chicken
house with a wicker egg basket over one arm. "Skip."
The dog came obediently to her side. The elderly
woman was so short that she could easily grasp a handful of shaggy hair. "Come on into the house. Have you
had breakfast yet?"
"I did," he said. "But don't tell me that's peach pie I
smell. Have you been baking already?"
She chuckled and-guided by the dog-led the way
up the porch steps and into the big kitchen. Three
pies stood cooling on a sideboard, and the table was
set for two with cups, saucers, forks, and spoons. A
bouquet of wildflowers spilled over a white crockery
pitcher in the center of the tablecloth. "Sit down, sit
down. I'll pour you some coffee."
Forest sat in one of the high-backed oak chairs. "You
look awfully pretty this morning, Aunt Birdy."
She twittered. "Hush that slick lawyer's tongue, Forest McCready. You lie like a rug. You think just because I'm old, you can get around me with honey talk?
Why do folks always talk to old people like they're
half-witted?"
He laughed. "I think I can talk you out a slice of that
peach pie to go with my coffee."
She brought the coffeepot to the table. "Who do you think I bake these pies for, son? Emma will be by
directly. I always have company when I bake pies." She
chuckled. "You want cream? It's in the refrigerator."
"Yes, ma'am." He retrieved the cream, and they
talked about the weather and the price of soybeans
this year. In true island fashion, Forest knew better
than to bring up the reason for his visit without enjoying a little hospitable conversation first.
"A terrible shame about that nice lady being murdered in the city, wasn't it?" Aunt Birdy said. "Emma
thinks it was the curse killed her. Old-time people
knew better than to disturb the dead, even if they were
Indians."
Forest stirred sugar into his coffee. "What do you
think? Do you believe in curses?"
Aunt Birdy pursed her mouth and closed her sightless eyes. "Depends on whether it's day or night. Sometimes, in the dark of night, I could swear I hear
Emma's father padding barefoot down the hall. He always used to check that front door to make certain it
was locked. Wasn't that foolish? Nobody on Tawes ever
locked a door in the old days, but he wanted that front
door bolted. Not the kitchen door, just the front. And
once he took off his shoes, he'd go around in stocking
feet, winter or summer. When I hear those footsteps, I
think maybe there's ghosts. But curses? I never did believe in curses."
She rose, took a knife from a drawer, and returned
to cut a generous piece of pie. It was still warm, and
the scent filled the kitchen.
"Nobody makes pies like you do."
"Not too many make pies at all. Emma tells me that
foolish Mary Love has store-bought pies for sale in
Dori's. You know they've got to be stale. Pie is like
sweet corn. Best eaten the same day it's cooked."
"I was wondering about something, and I thought you might be the one to help me," Forest said. "I need
to know about the old families on Tawes. The Tilghmans, the Catlins, the Parkses."
"Tawes. They was here first," she reminded him as
she served the pie. "Why on earth would you want to
know that? And why not go to Matthew? He fancies
himself a historian-least, that's what Emma says."
"You know I don't want this land sale going through
any more than Emma does."
"Or me. I sure as hellfire don't want mainlanders
here, racing up and down in their little sports cars and
dirtying up our water." Aunt Birdy took a dainty forkful of pie and lifted it to her mouth. "Needed more
cinnamon. I was worried about that."
"The pie is wonderful," Forest said. "Perfect."
"Would be if it had more cinnamon."
"Thomas Sherwood never paid the taxes on that
farm. Neither did his grandfather. The taxes were always paid out of the fund."