Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (13 page)

Braden frowned. “I’d try to discourage you, but I have a
hunch how that conversation would end. Give me a minute to change, and I’ll
come along. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“Are you a runner?” My question wasn’t exactly innocent. I
don’t do badly for an over-fifty broad, and the thought of forcing Braden to
pant a little held a certain perverse appeal.

“Running’s not my favorite activity, but I’ll try to keep
up.”

He certainly looked fit, but I didn’t picture him as a
runner. Maybe bending a Bowflex to his will or hefting dumbbells as sweat
popped on his forehead. His hard, defined muscles didn’t have a runner’s sleek
contours.

“I started packing on pounds after I turned thirty-five,” he
confessed. “Figured I either had to run occasionally or give up beer. No
contest.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “A strong motive. Me? I love
running. I really miss it when I lay off a few days.”

“Do you have a DVR?” Braden asked.

“Sure,” I answered, momentarily puzzled by the quick topic
shift.

“Let’s record the news. See how the sheriff handles his
press conference.”

“Right. Can’t believe I forgot about it.” I had a vested
interest in the sheriff’s fictionalized account of my encounter with Dear’s
killer.

Five minutes later we were out the door. We appeared to
favor similar exercise attire—torn T-shirts, threadbare shorts, dingy running
shoes. No flashy, form-fitting spandex or designer headbands. My concession to
sweat was a man’s handkerchief tucked in my waistband.

Braden glanced at the contraption on my wrist. “That’s one
honking big watch.”

“A new GPS toy. We have to stand still a minute so it can
acquire satellite signals, then I’ll be ready to roll.”

“What, you’re afraid you’ll get lost on Dear Island?”

I laughed. “No. It’s got a trip computer. Tells me exactly
how far I’ve gone, average miles per hour, even my maximum speed. I wear it
whenever I run so I can set ‘waypoints’ for the fellow who runs Camp Dear. He’s
planning geocaching games for his little munchkins this summer. I’m marking
points of interest for his treasure hunts. You know, osprey nests, rare plants,
alligator hangouts, that sort of thing.”

“Give me a heads-up on those alligator hangouts,” Braden
said as we set off down the leisure path.

The sun hovered low on the horizon, probing the landscape
with slanted golden beams. Motes danced in the light, and the slender shadows
cast by palm trees and pampas grass looked mystical—cloaked monks stealing
silently across the adjacent fairway’s velvety winter rye.

I checked to make sure no golfers were teeing off behind us,
then sprinted onto the eleventh fairway. The soft grass with its spongy
cushioning was kind to rickety knees. A couple of hundred yards later I ducked
into a wooded shortcut to the nearest ocean crosswalk.

“Hey, you don’t waste time warming up.” Braden’s breathing,
like mine, was audible but not labored. I’d lost any illusion of leaving him
panting in my wake. The man could run, even if he didn’t enjoy it.

When the ocean cutover took us past Stew’s condo, I glanced
at his windows. The panes were fiery mirrors. They caught and liquefied the
dying sun’s glow, turning it into molten ingots. A fisherman in waders stood
resolutely in the surf, rhythmically casting his line. The filament danced over
the frothy breakers. Half a mile down the narrow ribbon of beach, a woman
walked a dog. Lonely silhouettes.

We slowed on the uneven surface. The rhythmic slapping of
our shoes against the sand all but drowned out my words. “It’s beautiful, so
peaceful. Hard to imagine some maniac is murdering people on Dear.”

“Nothing to say murder and beauty can’t coexist,” Braden
answered. “It’s just easier to accept death in tacky surroundings. Back alleys.
Crack houses. Slums. Your island’s untouched by that kind of ugliness. It’s
isolated. You have to cross what, four bridges, to get here from the mainland?
How long have people lived here, anyway?”

“That final bridge—the one that’s defunct at the moment—was
built in the seventies. Before then the island was a hunting preserve. In the
fifties, a logging company strip-cut the pines. Hard to believe, looking at the
heavy forest that’s grown up since.”

We lapsed into silence as we picked up speed. Braden almost
stepped on a horseshoe crab’s carcass. Birds had picked its prehistoric armor
clean, leaving only its turtled brown shell and spiny tail. Jumping to avoid
the remains, he lost his balance in the ankle-deep sand and accidentally
hip-checked me. Reaching out to steady me his grip felt strong, hot and
reassuring.

“It’s not easy running on this stuff,” he complained as he
released my arm.

I glanced toward the water. Each wave brought the ocean
nearer its crest, almost as high as the spring tide that tried to snatch Bea’s
corpse. That tide’s demarcation line was clear. The sea had deposited reeds,
tiny shells, and the occasional Styrofoam scrap in an undulating pattern. We
ran uphill of the detritus, hugging a line of chameleon dunes that appeared and
disappeared at nature’s whim. Braden was right. The sand was too soft for
running. Sucking at my feet, it caused my ankles to wobble.

I stumbled against him. “Sorry. I forgot it was high tide.
Not the time to run here. You’ll have to come back at low tide. Acres of white
sand, hard-packed enough to ride a bike. Next crossover we can cut over to a
road.”

We skirted a stretch of four- to five-foot dunes. Sea grass
anchored the shifting mounds. The winter’s nor’easters had bent and battered
the once golden stalks. My mind floated as I shook off last night’s ordeals and
surrendered to the cleansing salt air. Then the world exploded.

“Get down.” Braden tackled me.

We landed in a sweaty tangle. He rolled his body on top of
mine.

Boom. Crack. Boom. Crack.

For a second, I shared the deputy’s alarm.
Gunfire?
My heart hammered so hard I thought it might crack a rib. Then laughter bubbled
up.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “They’ll hear you.”

Braden clearly figured I was hysterical.

“It’s okay. Just some touron shooting fireworks.” I chuckled
with relief as an additional snap, crackle and pop marked the launch of more
harmless pyrotechnics. “You get used to it. Fireworks are legal in South
Carolina, and people pick them up en route to the beach.”

Braden didn’t move. He was still on top of me, his weight a
pleasant pressure. His mint-scented breath made my lips tingle. I’d quit
laughing. I scarcely breathed as I searched his face. I’d never been much on
mental telepathy but I gave it a go: Don’t move. Kiss me. Messages I’d never
utter aloud. It had been so long. How did this work?

God help me, I wanted this man. It had been more than a year
since I’d felt the solid comfort of a man’s body atop my own.
Forgive me,
Jeff. I need to feel alive again.

The cool sand cemented itself to my legs. I felt clammy and
flushed at the same time. Braden toyed with a damp curl matted to my forehead.
A finger sauntered down my cheek and grazed my lips. His eyes no longer looked
hazel; they’d darkened, a smoldering ash that overpowered the lightning flashes
of green.

An arched eyebrow asked the question. I gave the answer in
my steady gaze and the tremble of my lips. Slowly he lowered his mouth to mine.
The kiss began as a whisper. A promise. Then I felt the liquid heat of his
tongue and joined the duet. The song began sweetly, our tongues shyly flirting.
But my nerve endings were dry tinder, aching for a match. I felt his arousal
and shifted my hips to intensify our contact. I wrapped my arms around his
muscled back and hugged his hard body to mine. The sand grinding beneath my
limbs was a forgotten irritant.

In seconds, we’d reached the flashpoint. My ferocious
longing frightened me. Braden’s need appeared just as keen. Our bodies raced
ahead of conscious thought.

When he broke our full-body embrace, I felt dazed.

“Can we head back?” he asked between ragged breaths.

“Yes,” I answered, my voice husky with want.

Am I nuts? I’ve got twelve years on this man. We’ve never
been on a date. Yes, but he saved your life. And you’re alive…alive like you
haven’t been in thirteen long months.

My decision made me feel giddy with anticipation. “Race you
back,” I taunted impishly, wondering if a hard-on would add or subtract from
his foot speed.

We were both panting and shivering when we burst through my
front door. The minute it shut, we grappled like mud wrestlers, slick with
sweat. Encumbered by few items of clothing, we were naked in a flash—and still
in my foyer. If Janie walked onto my porch, the glass sidelights would give her
an eyeful.

I giggled.

“What?” Braden asked, somewhat irritably.

“I hope Girl Scouts don’t pick this moment to make a cookie
call. We’re in plain view.”

“Oh. We can fix that.”

I let him lead me toward the master bedroom, but resisted
his pull toward the bed.

“Let’s do this right,” I said. “We’re caked with sand.
Shower first?”

“Why not?” Braden’s lazy grin made me melt. “We have all
night.”

We stood slightly apart under the pulsing cascade, our
fingers reaching across the steamy divide to explore. My skin tingled from the
prickling spray.

Mini droplets clung to his long black eyelashes. Inside-out
tears. His eyes met mine, unblinking. They told a bedtime story I’d sorely
missed.

I want you.

He reached for the soap. In his clever hands, the slick bar
slithered across my shoulders and snaked down one arm. When he reached my hand,
he opened it, brought my palm to his face and tenderly kissed it. Then he
lavished his attentions on my other arm.

A clean piney scent rode on the shower mist and filled the
spare space between our bodies. The drumbeat of warm water painted my breasts
the delicate pink of seashells. My nipples hardened though he had yet to touch
them. Braden bent his head and licked at a rivulet of water as it meandered
from my shoulder to my chest. His tongue, a marriage of velvet and sandpaper,
felt even warmer than the shower’s cascade. His teeth grazed my flesh and I
sucked in my breath.
Oh, God, his touch. A gentle, easing rain after a long
drought.

“Hey, you can’t have all the fun.” I tried to quell the
quaver in my voice.

I soaped Braden’s chest and watched as his matted hairs
first clung to his skin and then slowly sprang back to life.
Resilience,
what a marvel.

“Turn around,” I ordered.

“You want me to turn my back on you?” He laughed. “What do
you have in mind?”

I soaped a long-handled brush and made lazy circles down his
spine. Then I traced them lightly with my fingernails. He gasped. “May I turn
around now?” His voice rumbled, cascading over me like the water.

Braden captured the soap from me and lathered his hands. Now
the soap was gone. Yet I could see bubbles where his fingers painted sudsy
designs on my skin. My body hummed. He pushed me against the smooth tile, and I
wrapped my arms around him once more. As the warm water sluiced over us, it
found the few tiny crevices where our bodies were not wholly joined. Trickling
into these voids, the water perfected our fit.

This felt wonderful. This felt right.

Braden proved to be a marathoner, not a sprinter. What more
could I ask for in an exercise partner? Strength, endurance. Shared exuberance
at the finish line. And the knowledge that warm-down exercises do count.

His caresses hadn’t stopped. Now it was light finger exercises,
a hand skating over my thigh as I curled against his length. More than an hour
had elapsed since we’d entered the shower. As I lay in bed with my eyes closed,
I could replay each sensuous moment.

When was the last time I’d felt this good? I almost wanted
to burst into song. Not a love song, mind you, but something exuberant and
free-wheeling like Jan & Dean’s “Little Old Lady from Pasadena.”

He yawned, stretched and patted my behind. “Time to get up.
I’ll fix dinner, but first let’s see what Sheriff Conroy fed the newshounds.”

In the living room, Braden claimed the recliner, a man
magnet if I ever saw one. If I’m ever desperate for male company, I’ll just buy
a La-Z-Boy for yard art. I curled up on the couch. At least I beat him to the
remote control.

The DVD rewound to the start of the news conference.
Conroy’s voice boomed. “I have a statement, then I’ll take questions.” I
punched down the volume.

“Last night saw another horrible, senseless murder on Dear Island.
Beatrice Caldwell was killed after midnight. We believe her killer to be the
same person who murdered Stewart Hartwell early Monday morning.

“This vicious murderer left the island by boat shortly
before dawn. A Dear Island security officer scuffled with him at the marina. We
hope to circulate a sketch of the suspect shortly. The guard suffered minor
injuries and a concussion, but she’s recovering nicely. Our witness got a good
look at her attacker. While her short-term memory remains a bit cloudy, doctors
are confident it’ll clear quickly.

“We
will
catch this killer. We’ve got a crackerjack
team working the case, including forensics experts from the South Carolina Law
Enforcement Division. Our lead investigator has ten years of experience as an Atlanta
homicide detective.”

The Q&A free-for-all that followed yielded no surprises.
Conroy tailored his answers to soothe the citizenry. By the end of the press
conference, he’d repeated umpteen times the number of officers, squad cars,
helicopters and boats trolling for the killer and protecting the populace.

Conroy deserved high marks for schmooze. But would our
killer buy his heavy-handed hints? I turned to Braden. “Was Conroy too obvious?
Authorities normally don’t spill the beans about an eyewitness.”

He chewed his lip. “Let’s pray the perp thinks the sheriff’s
a local yokel who forgot himself. I wish Conroy hadn’t sent such a clear
message. I have a strong feeling our killer will be back. Sure you don’t want
to leave the island?”

I teased to keep the mood light. “What? Think the pressure
will get to an old retiree?”

“I don’t want to take any chances.” His eyes were dark,
brooding.

Nothing would convince me to abandon the plan. The only way
to trap the killer.

When I said nothing more, he relented. “Okay, I’ll make a
salad and grill our steaks. We can talk strategy later. At least we’ve settled
the question of sleeping arrangements. I plan to stay glued to you until this
maniac’s caught.”

I answered with a grin. “You do ‘glue’ nicely.”

I walked into the great room and checked my answering machine.
I’d heard the phone ring while we were otherwise engaged. The neon counter read
“10.” Clearly the Dear Island tom-toms had identified me as the “mystery”
witness. I fast-forwarded through seven nearly identical messages—callers
clucking over my bad luck. I jotted a note to return the eighth call. Tammy
Nowling asked if we were still on for lunch tomorrow.

The ninth message came as a surprise. Leyla’s rich
near-baritone always commanded attention. We shared the same last name, Clark,
and, if we were feeling mischievous, we introduced ourselves as sisters.
Leyla’s skin was dark chocolate while mine is nearer marshmallow, even when
toasted. So our banter either drew a good-natured laugh or a bewildered mumble.

The tension in Leyla’s voice signaled her call was no
laughing matter. “Marley, my niece has gone missing. It’s been less than
twenty-four hours, and the sheriff’s office said we have to wait forty-eight
hours before they’ll look into it. Can you stop by my office tomorrow? Say
eleven? Don’t bother calling tonight. I’ll be at my sister’s.”

Though I hadn’t the foggiest notion how I could help, I
would meet her at Gedduh Place in the morning. I tutored in the center’s adult
literacy program.

Janie was the tenth caller. How did she always manage to
have the final word?

“Listen, I talked to April. My sister says this Kain guy
hangs out at her club. Shows up about nine every Friday. Usually leaves with a
young chick, but never plays hide-the-salami with the same gal twice. I told
April we’d be there Friday. We can bunk at her place since there’s no way to
get back on Dear after sundown. Bye.”

I considered calling Janie to remind her I was joined at the
hip with a bodyguard. Of course Braden might not object to visiting a
gentlemen’s club. Tomorrow I’d spring the idea of a Hilton Head sleepover on my
new roommate.

The sizzle of steak and its companion aroma made a sneak
attack. My stomach rumbled. “How much longer?” I called.

“Five minutes, tops.”

Time enough to power up my laptop and check emails. Earlier
I’d fired off questions to Steve Watson, an Army buddy who’d opened a Web-based
“defend-yourself” business. His Internet storefront did a brisk trade in
non-lethal weapons from stun guns and pepper spray to blinding LED guns. I
hoped Steve could suggest how our killer acquired his weaponry. He’d responded
quickly—two lengthy emails.

“Dinner’s ready,” Braden called.

“Just a minute.” I printed Steve’s missives to read later
and powered down the computer. For the remainder of the night, I had no
intention of dealing with modern technology. An easy decision when there’s
age-old—or is it old age—lust to satisfy.

***

I awoke with a start. Disoriented. I was tucked into the
king bed in my master bedroom, not my normal sleeping digs. More important, a
warm naked rump pressed against mine. I smiled.
Change can be good.

The room wasn’t so much black as mocha. I could discern the
shape of my dresser, the outline of the bathroom door, the picture window where
moonlight cast shifting shadows of overgrown oleanders against the shades.

Wind-blown branches scratched against the siding. The sound
probably nudged me to consciousness. In winter, I’d have blamed the commotion
on a large buck that liked to hone his antlers on my shrubbery. But spring
wasn’t the season for antler rattling.

A hoarse whisper brought me fully awake.
Should I wake
Braden? What if it’s my imagination
? I didn’t want to appear a high-strung
ninny.

I crept out of bed. Nakedness compounded my feeling of
vulnerability. I edged to the window and peered out a corner of the shade. A
shadow moved. I blinked, then focused where a silhouette darted into deeper
shadows. This was no dream. A man moved. He held a long gun. A rifle?

My pulse rate be-bopped up the charts. I backed away from
the window.

How could I wake Braden without creating a ruckus? I wanted
to catch the prowler, not scare him off. Maybe we’d bag our murderer.

After pulling on running shorts and a tee, I tiptoed to his
side of the bed and squeezed his shoulder. With my other hand, I pressed two
fingers against his lips. He shot up like a geyser, his breathing staccato. I’d
scared the crap out of him.

I whispered. “Someone’s outside. In back. By the window. I
think he has a gun. A rifle, maybe.”

“I’ll go,” Braden whispered fiercely. “You stay here.”

“Fat chance.” Though it was too dark for meaningful glances,
I was pretty sure the deputy was pissed.

“Come on, let’s do it,” I urged. “No time to waste arguing.”

Braden pulled on pants and grabbed his gun from the holster
draped over a rocking chair. I retrieved mine from a dresser drawer. We both
slipped on shoes and stole from the room.

I cursed the squeaking floorboards I’d pledged to fix many
moons ago. To surprise our backyard intruder, we snuck out the front door and
down the three steps from porch to lawn. Braden motioned me to follow him to
the right. I resolutely shook my head “no” and pointed left. Making a
Yellow
Pages
walking fingers motion, I signaled my intent. My partner wasn’t a
happy camper.

I’d barely cleared the front corner of the house when my
foot landed on a palm frond. I froze, certain the crackle of a tinder-dry frond
could be heard for blocks. I listened for fleeing footsteps, a curse or a shot.
Silence. Even the tree frogs had stilled their chorus.

The absence of bushes on this side of the property provided
a clear view. No one lurked near my path. I uttered a silent prayer, crouched
low and scuttled forward, hugging shadows cast by the house. I peered around
the corner. Silhouettes. Plural. Crap.

There were two of them. Only one carried a gun. I inched
forward. Since no one ever called me Dead Eye Dick, I needed to creep mighty
close to nail anyone. And I needed to make damn sure no stray bullet flew in
Braden’s direction.

My fear decreased as my anger surged. I was ninety-nine
percent sure I knew the identity of the culprits. When I got within fifteen
paces, I yelled, “Drop it. I have a gun, and I’ll shoot if you don’t put yours
on the ground this instant.”

Boys, not men. They reeked of alcohol. Their lack of
sobriety probably explained their bumbling lethargy. No telling how long the
Cuthbert twins had been dithering about.

“I’ve got you covered,” Braden yelled from a nearby vantage
point. “Don’t be stupid.”

Jared flung his rifle to the ground, as I was certain he
would. Braden rushed to retrieve it.

“For Christ’s sake,” he yelled at me. “You didn’t wait for
me to get in position. Are you trying to get killed?”

Ignoring his ire, I turned mine on the twins. “As soon as I
got a good look—and a whiff of you two—I knew I was dealing with inebriated dumbbells.
Introduce yourself, boys,” I ordered as I began patting down the twins.

Hands held high, the teens started to whine.

“Hey, man. No guns,” Henry said, his speech a sibilant slur.
“Ours wuz just a pop gun.”

“Yeah, we only wanted to scare you a little,” Jared added.
“You really spoiled things the other night. We owed you.”

I turned toward Braden and holstered my weapon. “Meet Dork
Number One—Henry Cuthbert—and Dork Number Two—brother Jared. Let’s take this
discussion inside.”