Dead Even (28 page)

“What do you want?” He took a pillow from the end of the sofa and tossed it on the floor. He lay down, his head on the pillow, his arms folded under his head.

“Some pretty little silk scarves. Four should do nicely, I think.” She yawned and turned over.

“What do you need scarves for?” he asked.

“Well, you said you couldn’t find your handcuffs. . . .” She paused for effect, encircling one of her wrists with the fingers of the other hand, then whispered, “But I’ve always preferred scarves anyway. I seem to remember you do, too. . . .”

“Jesus, Cahill,” he groaned, “you’re killing me.”

“Maybe so, but at least you’ll die with a smile on your face. . . .”

He could feel her smile through the dark, and he laughed, then sat up and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her onto the floor next to him.

“Pillow,” she muttered.

He reached for the one she’d been using and slid it under her head, then pulled her closer.

“Is the floor too hard for your back?” he asked.

“It’s okay.” She snuggled into him.

For a moment, he just enjoyed the sensation of having her this close again.

“Stay,” she whispered. “Stay this time.”

“This time and every time,” he told her.

She was reaching her arms up to draw him close when his phone began to ring.

“Don’t answer it,” she protested. “Any time the phone rings at two o’clock in the morning, it’s not going to be good news.”

“It’s three,” he said as he rolled onto one side to retrieve his phone from his pocket and checked the incoming call. “It’s John.”

“Even worse,” she groaned.

“Hey, John,” Will said. “Yeah, you heard right . . . yeah, here’s what happened. . . .”

Will proceeded to walk John through the night’s events. When he finished the call a long twelve minutes later, he turned off the phone and tossed it onto the sofa.

“We have to be in the office tomorrow for a meeting around four to wrap this Douglas thing up, then we’ll be briefed on the Prescott case. John wants us to fly out to Wyoming day after tomorrow and help track down the girls who have gone missing from the compound over the past few years. Looks like there have been dozens of them, John thinks maybe even hundreds. Genna’s going to be lead on this; we’re going to be working with her.”

He lay beside Miranda, stroking her hair lightly with his fingers. “Looks like those pretty silk scarves are going to have to wait, babe. But maybe we can leave for Wyoming ahead of the others so that we can have a little time to ourselves. Won’t be the Fleming Inn, but I’m sure we’ll find someplace nice. What do you think? Miranda?”

He glanced down and realized that she was sound asleep.

“Well, that’s okay,” he whispered. “God knows you earned it.”

Will lay awake in the still house, the only sound Miranda’s gentle breathing, thinking that of all the nights they’d spent together over the past few years, he’d never felt closer to her than he did right at that moment.

He thought about where they’d been and where they were headed, about the things that had gone wrong between them in the past, and he promised himself that the road ahead would be different from the road they were leaving behind. He whispered that promise to her in the dark, then closed his eyes and joined her in sleep.

EPILOGUE

Vince was in the infirmary, waiting for his turn to see the nurse about an annoying rash he had developed over much of his body.

“Gotta be the lousy crap they wash our clothes with,” he’d grumbled to the guard who’d brought him up.

The door to the nurse’s office stood open, and Vince could see straight inside to the TV where the noon news was just coming on. He amused himself for a few minutes, listening to the political bullshit that passed for commentary on the elections that would be held in several days. When the anchor moved back to local headlines, Vince almost fell off his chair.

“. . . body of suspected killer Archer Lowell was found down the road from the farm where true-crime writer Joshua Landry had been killed just days earlier. In an exclusive interview with the local chief of police, this station has learned that the bullets that killed both men were fired from the same gun. In an even more bizarre twist, that gun was found on the body of Burton Connolly, an ex-con who was shot and killed outside a house in Lyndon where the chief financial officer for Reverend Prescott was arrested two nights ago. . . .”

What the fuck . . . ?

Vince leaned as close to the open door as he could get when the tape of the arrest in Lyndon began to roll.

Wow, he thought as he watched the tape. Archer’s dead. Burt-man, too. What the fuck was going on?

And hey, there’s Blondie, the profiler. What the hell?

It occurred to him that apparently neither Archer nor Burt had survived long enough to talk to the FBI and bring up his name or they’d have been in his face by now. Thank heaven for small favors, eh?

“No word yet from the FBI as to how these cases are connected, but it’s believed that the FBI is as baffled as the Lyndon police over the possible relationships among Lowell and Landry and this latest victim, Connolly, and what, if any, is the connection among those three and Reverend Prescott’s Valley of the Angels. In a related story, Prescott’s compound was the scene of a dawn raid by FBI agents this morning, and for more on that, we go to our affiliate in Wyoming. . . .”

Vince was filled with a perverse pleasure to hear that the FBI was stymied. Not that he had it figured out yet, but what the fuck,
they
cared. He didn’t. Not really.

The taped interviews continued, and Vince found himself grinning broadly when Miranda Cahill come to the mike, her face filling the screen.

Her hair was tousled and she wore no makeup, but even so, she was some looker.

Vince realized he was almost relieved to see that Archer hadn’t killed her. It would have been a waste. She was probably the most beautiful woman who’d ever spoken to him, and Vince took a twisted sort of pride in that, and in the fact that she’d managed to dodge the bullet, so to speak. That she’d outplayed him in the game.

He couldn’t begrudge her her life. Especially when she filled out that shirt the way she did . . .

Nah, he wasn’t sorry that Archer hadn’t been able to get to her. He had even started to grow a little fond of her, in an odd sort of way. She was all right, that Cahill.

He stared into space, thinking about the morning he’d met the other two. A chance meeting, and an unholy alliance had been forged. Men with murder in their hearts and revenge on their minds, playing a game.
Pretending
to play a game. It was only supposed to be a game.

And then Curtis Channing had decided to play for real.

That Curt, he’d been a real card, all right.

Somehow, Vince hadn’t been at all surprised to find out that the man was a serial killer. He’d read in the paper last week the cops were still trying to add up the body count.

Who woulda thought that?

And Archer, from all he’d heard over the past few days, was just some dumb-shit kid who’d liked to talk big. Well, he’d talked himself right into one hell of a mess, hadn’t he?

One hell of a big mess. And if memory served, the whole game, this whole hit list thing, had been Archer’s idea in the first place. It had been a game no one had won.

Well, that’s not quite true,
he smiled wryly,
at least I’m alive. More than Channing or Archer could say, right?

Guess that makes me the winner after all. Last man standing, and all that.

It was one hell of a story, though. And wouldn’t it make one hell of a book?

Shit,
he nodded to himself,
this would be a blockbuster. It has bestseller written all over it.
All he needed was someone to work with him. Collaborate, that’s what they called it. Someone who’d know how to put the words together to make them sound good.

Suddenly the thoughts began to gather and swirl around and around in his head.

Oh, but it was brilliant. Perfect.

By the time he got back to his cell, he was in need of a pen and paper, quickly, before he forgot what he wanted to say.

Using his best Palmer method handwriting, he began:

Dear Miss Landry:

Please accept my condolences—
he paused, then erased and started again—
my most heartfelt condolences on the loss of your father. . . .

By Mariah Stewart

Published by The Random House Publishing Group:

DEAD EVEN

DEAD CERTAIN

DEAD WRONG

UNTIL DARK

THE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Ballantine Book

Published by The Random House Publishing Group

Copyright © 2004 by Marti Robb

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

www.ballantinebooks.com

eISBN: 978-0-345-47860-3

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