Deadly Pursuit (16 page)

“That was a mighty tasty piece of salmon, son.” Walt wiped his lips on a paper napkin and sat back in his chair. “You sure have given that grill a workout since you've been home.”

“You need to learn to use it too. It's a very healthy way to cook.” Mitch rose and picked up their empty plates. So far, getting his father interested in the culinary arts had been a losing battle. “Would you like some more iced tea?”

“Yes, thanks. But if you keep waiting on me, I'm going to get lazy.”

“How come I don't think that will happen?” Mitch retrieved the pitcher of tea. “Case in point: I noticed the freshly turned earth in the garden as I pulled in tonight. You were busy after our lunch.”

“The doc said it was okay.”

“It's too hot to be out in the sun.”

“It'll only get hotter. Wait till July.”

“Why don't you forego the garden this year?” Mitch refilled his father's glass, then cut them each a slice of angel food cake, ladling sliced strawberries over the top.

“I've had a garden every year of my adult life, and I'm not about to quit now. But I might scale it back a little.” Walt dug into the cake the instant Mitch set it in front of him.

There was nothing wrong with his dad's appetite, that was for sure. Another positive sign. The older man's rising energy level was also encouraging. He should be grateful his father was making such a speedy recovery.

He took his own seat again and used the edge of his fork to slice through his cake. “I guess you know what's best.”

His father stopped eating and stared at him. “Well, that's quite a change from the mollycoddling you've been dishing out up to now. What happened?”

Mitch lifted one shoulder and continued to eat. “Alison suggested that I trust you to test your limits—and assume you have the common sense to respect them.”

“Did she, now.” His father grinned and speared a strawberry, waving it to punctuate his next comment. “I knew I liked that girl. She has a first-rate head on her shoulders and a warm heart. That's a winning combination. So when are you going to take her out on a real date?”

After spending the entire dinner listening to his father effuse about today's lunch—and sidestepping the older man's queries about his intentions with Alison—he should have known better than to bring her up again.

“When life slows down.” He took a sip of his iced tea and stirred in some more sugar.

“Trust me, son. That'll never happen. Life just gets busier and busier until you're my age. And then there's not much left of it to enjoy. You have to go for the gusto when the opportunity presents itself. What's holding you back, anyway? Don't you like her?”

“Of course I like her. What's not to like?”

“My point exactly.”

“I need to take it slowly, Dad. She was involved in a serious relationship a year ago that didn't work out. That's why she brushed off your question today about why she wasn't married. Now she's a little gun-shy.” Mitch kept his explanation spare, careful not to reveal too much of the personal information she'd shared in confidence. “I don't want to rush her. That could backfire.”

Walt speared another strawberry and twirled it on his fork. “You want my opinion?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No. Your mother always said I was too outspoken, and she was right. But as one Musketeer to another, I can tell you the lady is interested. You pussyfoot around too long, she'll find somebody else.”

Mitch took a sip of tea. “I'm not pussyfooting around.”

“Yeah?” His father gave him a skeptical look. “You haven't even taken her on a real date.”

“I'll get around to that.”

“Hmph. He who hesitates . . .”

“If it makes you feel any better, I'm planning to call her after I get back from swimming and ask her out for Saturday night.”

His father's face brightened. “That's the best news I've had all day. At least she'll know you're interested.”

Smiling, Mitch finished off his cake and rose. “Trust me. She knows I'm interested.” He winked and reached for his father's empty plate too.

Walt smiled back. “Well now. Maybe there's hope for you yet.” He stood and shooed Mitch away from the sink. “You go on and swim. I'll clean up in here. It'll help me get the blood moving. Besides, the sooner you get home, the sooner you can call that pretty little lady.”

“No argument from me.” Mitch draped the dishcloth over the sink and headed for the hall to collect his duffel bag.

“And son . . .”

At his father's words, he turned in the doorway.

“If I haven't told you lately, it's good to have you home again.”

Mitch tried to swallow past the sudden pressure in his throat. “It's good to be home.”

As he continued toward his room, Mitch realized that affirmation was true on many levels. Although he'd liked the NYPD, he loved his dad more. Since the bypass scare, spending time with him had become a top priority.

And as it had turned out, his new job was proving to be every bit as interesting as the NYPD gig.

Plus, he'd met Alison. That had been a huge—and unexpected—bonus.

Grabbing his duffel bag from the corner of his childhood bedroom, he glanced around at the dozens of swimming ribbons, medals, and trophies that decorated the walls and shelves. The ones his father had told Alison about at lunch. He'd sweated blood to win most of them. Pushed himself to the limit. Been harder on himself than any coach had ever been.

As a result, he'd had his fleeting moments of glory. And he'd enjoyed them.

But he was prouder of what the awards represented at a deeper level—perseverance, determination, and commitment. The ability to establish a goal and go after it with single-minded determination.

Those skills had served him well in every endeavor he'd undertaken. In college, in the navy, as a SEAL, on the NYPD.

And he hoped they'd continue to serve him well now as he wooed a lovely Children's Service worker with amazing blue eyes and a warm, caring heart.

From his hiding place at the edge of the wooded common ground behind Alison's house, Daryl kept vigil. Night had fallen, and there was a subtle glow through the drawn shade in what he assumed was her kitchen. Not as bright as last night, so she must be in a different part of the house. But he'd seen her come home. Knew she was inside. Knew, also, that she was alone. There had been no visitors.

Soon he would make his move.

After wiping his palms on his slacks, he pulled on the latex gloves. Then, using the knife he'd withdrawn from its sheath, he opened the pouch of plastic sheeting. He removed one piece, cut a hole in the center, and pulled it over his head. The second piece he laid on the ground, securing it in place with two large rocks. After a couple more simple preparations, he was ready.

Now all he had to do was wait.

This was the hardest part.

With nothing to do but think about the blood to come, he had difficulty keeping his queasiness at bay. But the two whiskeys he'd downed at a tavern on the way had smoothed out his nerves and helped him focus on the outcome, not the act.

He thought again about the glimpse he'd had earlier today of Alison's clear blue eyes. Eyes that didn't seem to have a care in the world.

Once again, his lips twisted as he balanced the knife in his hands.

In less than twenty minutes, if all went well, she'd have plenty to worry about.

And those eyes would be awash with terror.

The baby afghan she'd been knitting slid from Alison's lap, rousing her. Blinking, she glanced at her grandfather's antique clock on the mantel. She'd actually fallen asleep for ten minutes while sitting upright. That was a rarity.

Then again, she'd had a busy day—the Callahan hearing this morning, lunch with Mitch and his father, plus a full afternoon of paperwork that had kept her at the office later than usual. She'd been too tired when she got home to do anything more than reheat a piece of the lasagna she'd made a couple of weeks ago and feed Bert.

Bert.

She'd let him out just before dozing off. Had he been trying to signal her he was ready to come back in?

Rising, she deposited the afghan on the seat of the chair. She didn't hear any scratching at the back door, which meant one of two things. Bert had given up summoning her and was waiting patiently on the stoop for her to let him in. Or he'd found some dead creature in a far corner of the yard and was dragging it back for her to see. He'd done that with a rabbit a few weeks ago.

Her less-than-enthusiastic response to his find hadn't seemed to faze him.

She flipped on the light in the kitchen as she entered, crossing to the back door to crack the blinds on the window above the knob.

He wasn't on the steps.

Not a positive sign.

She opened the door a few inches, stuck her head out, and looked around. The pool of illumination from her security lighting only extended to the edge of her patio, and he was nowhere in sight.

“Bert! Here, boy! Time to come in!”

In general, Bert would bound to the back door at her call, often yipping with excitement the whole way.

Tonight, an eerie silence met her summons.

Alison frowned and tried again. “Come on, Bert! I have a doggie biscuit for you!”

The phrase “doggie biscuit” never failed to catch his attention. Any second now he'd come dashing across the stone patio and careen past her legs into the kitchen in search of the promised treat.

But Bert remained mute. And absent. Only the whisper of the wind in the trees at the far dark edge of her lawn broke the silence.

Despite the heat, a shiver ran through her.

Something wasn't right.

Yet he had to be in the yard. The electric fence she'd installed last year was on. Perhaps he'd tangled with some larger critter. One that had gotten the upper hand. Mr. Harrison next door had mentioned seeing a coyote a few weeks ago. Maybe Bert was hurt.

Heart hammering, Alison retreated to the kitchen, grabbed a flashlight from under the sink, and pulled the broom out of her utility closet. The latter wasn't much of a weapon, but it would shoo away a coyote. She hoped. As she passed the counter, she snagged the portable phone as well and slipped it in the pocket of her shorts.

At the door, she hesitated. Should she call Cole or Jake? They wouldn't be happy about her wandering around the dark yard on her own, not with the specter of bingo man still hovering over her. Nor was she all that thrilled with the idea.

But this could be a false alarm. It was possible Bert was just ignoring her. He'd done that a time or two, when he'd gotten really engrossed in some interesting find. He always came, though, if she ventured out into the yard after him.

Surely it would be safe to go as far as the edge of the patio. She could aim the beam of the flashlight around the yard and call him again from there. If that didn't yield any result, she'd enlist the help of one of her brothers. She'd rather call Mitch, but she'd feel guilty bothering him with a mundane matter like this.

Stepping onto the stoop, she tried calling Bert once more from there. When that didn't produce a response, she eased to the edge of the patio, scanning the perimeter of light as she went. One suspicious shadow, and she'd bolt for the kitchen mere steps behind her.

But nothing moved. Nor did Bert respond to another round of calls.

With a flick of the switch, she turned on the flashlight and moved the beam across the yard. Although it didn't reach to the far corners, it extended her range of vision quite a bit. However, she saw nothing suspicious as she slowly swung it in a wide arc. It was as if Bert had disappeared without . . .

The beam of light caught the edge of an unfamiliar object. Less than five yards in front of her.

She swung it back.

Took a few steps closer.

Froze.

A scream clawed its way past her lips, ripping through the night, shattering the stillness.