That strange woman and his trek to the police department were the last things on his mind when he pulled into the warehouse parking lot the next morning. He grabbed his cap and headed for the office. It was time to clock in and load up. The route he made every week rarely changed, and that was why he liked it.
Bill Riley had been an undercover cop for six years. He was a small, wiry man with deep-set eyes and ordinary features. He’d come straight out of the academy with a sterling record and an uncanny ability to blend in that had not gone unnoticed by the St. Louis Police Department.
This morning was the beginning of a new assignment but, in an unusual twist, one pertaining to an old case. He was too young to remember the Hunter murders, but as of this morning he’d been fully briefed. Compared to some of his assignments, this was a simple task. Follow a suspect named Harold Mackey. Map out his work route and get a handle on his after-hours routine. And don’t get made.
Satisfied that he was good to go, he pulled the wig he was wearing down a little tighter on his head and scratched at a spot on his chin through the days-old growth of whiskers he maintained. He had an assortment of caps and wigs that he would change during the day, in case he felt Mackey was getting antsy.
He’d taken an abandoned vehicle from police impound—an ordinary white van. He’d put a temporary logo on it mimicking the one of Case Uniform Services, a well-known business in the city. It wouldn’t take long to get Mackey’s route down. As for tailing him at night if he was on the move, Riley had other transportation choices in mind.
Harold was loaded up and on his route before 7:00 a.m., eating his usual breakfast as he drove. He had a fondness for McDonald’s breakfasts and chose a different one each morning. Today was Monday, which meant two sausage-and-egg biscuits plus a large to-go coffee—black.
His first stop was at a supermarket. He pulled into the alley behind the store and honked once. Within a few moments the back door opened and a couple of the employees emerged. He grabbed his clipboard as he exited the truck and rolled up the back door. Thirty minutes later he was on to the next stop.
As he pulled up at a four-way stop, he glanced in the side-view mirror to check the traffic behind him. It had become habit after being rear-ended years earlier. He saw a sports car and a Case Uniform van—nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary—then drove through the intersection.
When he began to get hungry around noon, he got the mini-cooler with the lunch he’d packed from home, so he could eat as he drove. He was allowed a lunch break, but he liked to get through with the route on his own time. He unwrapped his sandwich and took a big bite, making a mental note to leave off the pickles next time he had corned beef. The bread was a little soggy.
He caught a red light at the next intersection, which gave him time to get a can of pop from the cooler and take a quick drink. As he waited, another Case Uniform van drove through the intersection in front of him. He eyed it absently, thinking to himself that there was a business he should have gotten into years ago. It was the second one he’d seen this morning, which proved people were always getting dirty. The light turned green, and he drove on through, eating as he went.
Riley knew Mackey had seen him at least twice, although he’d spent the entire morning on his tail. It was time to change up. While Mackey was making a restaurant delivery, Riley parked the van in an alley and called the P.D. to tow it in. It was time for plan B.
It was nearing 4:00 p.m., and Harold was two stops away from being done for the day. He was thinking about picking up some barbecued ribs and fries for dinner when he pulled into the parking lot of Tom’s Quick Stop. A young guy on a big motorcycle wheeled into the parking lot and pulled up to the gas pumps as Harold opened up the back of the truck. He eyed the bike, then the rider, and thought it was a hell of a way to travel. The rider would be exposed to the elements and vulnerable to all kinds of vehicles, especially the big rigs and delivery trucks like the one he drove. And with only that small storage compartment on the back, you couldn’t carry much of anything, either.
He dismissed the ride as useless, climbed up in the truck and began loading up the items to be delivered.
But the rider had not dismissed him.
Riley gassed up the bike, then drove off behind the station long enough to switch jackets, change his silver helmet for a black one he pulled from the bike’s storage compartment and put a stick-on emblem of skulls and crossbones on both sides of the bike to change it up. He sent himself an email marking the address on the route, just as he’d done at every stop Mackey made, and waited for the truck to pull out. When it left, Riley waited a few moments, then rolled into traffic a few cars behind and continued to follow.
At the end of the day, Mackey went home with his ribs and fries, and a cop on his tail.
Holly had gone to ground. She’d holed up in her room all day, refusing maid service and ordering room service. She’d tried to call Maria but instead got a nurse who said she was out of her room for tests. She tried to call Savannah, but the calls kept going to voice mail. She wanted to call Bud, but she didn’t know how to say what was in her heart. She needed to be looking at his face when those words came out of her mouth, and that wasn’t going to happen just yet. She wanted to know what was happening with the police but guessed it was too early for revelations. Her only solace came from rereading her journal. It was like hearing Andrew talk, and she missed him so much.
When you were ten, you began following Hannah around the kitchen like a little shadow, abandoning the games you’d been playing with your sisters for the chance to get to measure or stir, or your favorite task—cracking eggs for her baking. Hannah began calling you her right arm. You quickly became adept at anything to do with cooking. On your eleventh birthday you baked your own cake. It was quite a sight. Instead of the sheet pan that Hannah suggested you use, you insisted on making a layer cake. You got the layers out in one piece and the icing in between them, but one side leaned a considerable amount to the south. You didn’t care. You’d accomplished what you meant to do.
That’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you, honey. There’s no bullshit with you. You’re not only straightforward, but you’re tenacious. You don’t know the meaning of quit. That’s not something I taught you. You came that way. I suspect you have a good deal of your mother in you. She was just as determined to do the right thing, even though it meant putting herself in danger. Remember always that she thought of you and your safety first.
This gave Holly the boost of confidence she needed. She flipped through a few pages more, searching for the story about Bud going after a boy who’d tried to force her to have sex. She remembered it vividly, but she’d never known Bud’s side of it until she’d read the journal. Now that Bud had revealed his feelings for her, she wanted to read it again.
Remember the year you turned sixteen, and that date you had with Tommy Wolford? You hadn’t wanted much to do with boys. I think part of it was because you began looking like a woman long before you became one, and the boys—of all ages—began treating you differently. Hannah took you shopping for a bra before you were ten. Between the teasing you endured and the older boys all wanting to date you, you’d had enough of silly boys even before you were twelve. By the time you turned sixteen you were a fine figure of a woman, and you were slowly learning how to cope with unwanted attention.
The Fourth of July rolled around. Missoula was having their annual parade and fireworks display, and Tommy asked you on a date. I think you’d had a crush on him for a while, because your excitement when he asked was pretty high. Your sisters spent hours helping you pick out what you were going to wear and doing your hair—the whole girly thing. When he came to pick you up, you were pink-cheeked and as happy as I’d ever seen you. You waved goodbye at all of us and climbed in his pickup truck as if it were a stretch limo.
I had no reason to worry. We knew the Wolfords well, and you and Tommy were in the same class. It should have been a fun time for you. But it turned out to be something of a nightmare.
Our phone rang just after dark. I answered. You were crying, and all you kept saying was “Come get me, come get me.” After you calmed down enough to tell us where you were, I got in the car and took off to Missoula, leaving Bud in the house with your sisters. It was, without a doubt, the longest drive I ever made.
When I drove up to the gas station at the edge of town and saw you through the window, I know I breathed a little easier. At least you were still in one piece and standing. You saw me pull up and came running out. Your hair was in tangles. Your pretty new sundress had a tear on the shoulder, and your lower lip had been bleeding.
You threw your arms around me and just hugged me. I felt your desperation but was too tongue-tied to ask what I was thinking. I got you in the car, then began looking around for Tommy, but he was nowhere to be found. I remember when I asked you where he was, all you would say was that you’d told him to leave you alone and never talk to you again.
I wanted to pursue the issue, and fully intended to the next day by paying a visit to their ranch and confronting the boy myself. But Bud beat me to it. When we walked in the house, he took one look at the shock on your face and the tear on your dress, and froze. When he saw your bloody lip, he pretty much lost it.
He looked straight at you and asked what the hell had happened. You spoke out, still in shock and embarrassment, and said that it was over. To let it be.
Bud, being Bud, asked what I’d been afraid to ask. “Did he rape you?”
Your face got red, but you said no. I breathed a sigh of huge relief. I wanted the boy’s head on a platter, but I wasn’t ready to castrate him. I think Bud was of a different mind. When he asked you why your lip was bleeding, you told him that he got mad when you told him no. That was when Bud started getting hot. “He hit you? Tell me he did not hit you!” he yelled, and you said, “Not with his fist.” That got my dander up, just thinking about some stupid boy putting his hands on my girl and scaring her so bad, but I was supposed to be the adult. Bud wasn’t operating under the same restraints.
If you’ll remember, Maria and Savannah came in then, and the three of you took off to your room. I got on the phone to call Tommy’s dad and read him the riot act about what his son had done to my baby girl, and when I turned around, Bud was gone. I heard his truck start up and went to the window in time to see his taillights disappearing up the drive.
You came in later to tell me you were sorry. You seemed afraid, as if I might blame you for what had happened. When I told you not to apologize, that you were the one who was wronged, you hugged me and then went to bed. Later, I found all three of you piled up on one bed, with you in the middle. One thing was always certain in this family, when things got tough, you three banded together.
What you never knew was that Bud found Tommy Wolford in town, popped him in the mouth, then dragged his sorry ass into his truck and drove him back home to his family. Course they already knew what he’d done, but Bud punctuated my story with a threat of his own. He told Mr. Wolford that if Tommy wasn’t over at the Triple S in the morning with a personal apology, he was going to beat the hell out of him, regardless of the difference in their weight and ages, and whether his daddy liked it or not.
That’s why Tommy and his daddy were on our porch bright and early the next morning. Not so much because he was ashamed of his actions, but because he was scared of what Bud was going to do to him. I tell you this now so that you’ll know, if you’re ever going through something bad that you can’t handle, call Bud. He’ll always have your back.
Holly closed the journal, then clasped it against her breasts and rolled over on her side. Even then, he’d been her hero.
Nine
B
ud was in a mood he couldn’t shake. It was just after 10:00 p.m., and Holly still hadn’t called. He couldn’t sit still, and had been pacing between the living room and the kitchen, refilling his coffee cup, then letting it sit and go cold. He couldn’t concentrate on the television—it might as well have been in a foreign language. He couldn’t think about anything but what he’d said to Holly. When the phone suddenly rang, he grabbed it before the second ring, hoping it was her.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Bud, it’s me.”
Bud’s hopes sank, but he tried to hide it. “Judd! You’re there, I take it. I’ll bet Savannah was glad to see you. How’s she doing?”
“We’ve got problems,” Judd said.
Bud tensed. “What happened?”
“I’ll preface this by saying she’s okay now, but to make a long ugly story short, there was an attempt on her life today. Someone rigged the accelerator in her car and then, while it was out of control, forced her onto the MacArthur Causeway, which is basically a long-ass bridge over a whole lot of water. She hit the bridge, then went over the railing into the bay.”
Bud’s knees buckled. Grabbing the nearest chair, he sat down. It had happened to Savannah, too! What had Andrew been thinking when he gave them all that information without a solution to the problem?
“Shit! How bad was she hurt?”
It took all of Judd’s control to say the words without crying.
“She hit the steering wheel with her chest. She has a concussion, some cuts, and some of the worst bruises I’ve ever seen in my life. But the miracle is that she managed to get herself out of the car after it sank. She wasn’t breathing when she was rescued by the harbor patrol, but she seems to be okay now. They’re keeping her in the hospital for a couple of days to make sure she doesn’t suffer any aftereffects to her lungs.”