Half Past Dead (31 page)

This girl seemed too young, too innocent to have been in prison. “That's right. She did register with me when she arrived.”

“She's my friend. Kat helped me when I needed her.” Abby's lower lip trembled. “I tried to find her. She doesn't have a telephone number. I don't know where to start.”

“What's this about? I can't just release information to anyone who happens along.”

She looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear them, then whispered, hand on her breast. “I have to warn her. They'll kill her.”

The word
kill
triggered a depth charge of fear in him. “Who's they?”

“I don't know, but when I was being discharged, I found out one of the inmates who works in the warden's office had snooped through confidential files. She sold information about Kat's record. The furlough is just a front. Kat's helping federal authorities. As soon as word gets out, she'll be killed.”

Fear and anger knotted inside him. Sonofabitch! Here he was putting his career on the line for Kat, and she hadn't bothered to tell him this. Why not? Didn't she trust him?

He'd had a funny feeling about her from the get-go. He'd imagined a lot of scenarios—but never this. If she'd been undercover for the feds, why hadn't she confided in him? There had been plenty of opportunities.

Why are you surprised?
he asked himself. He had a long history of misjudging women that went back to Verity Mason. He'd all but convinced himself that Kat loved him. What a crock! For all he knew, the whole thing had been an act. She'd made a deal with the feds; it was as simple as that.

He didn't know where he fit into her life—or if he fit in at all. An abject hollowness, a deep-seated sense of betrayal left him dazed. He'd been planning a life, a future with a home and children. What had Kat been planning?

Who knew? He tried to tell himself he didn't care, but he was hurt.

“Don't worry,” he assured the girl. “I'll make certain she finds out.”

“You're sure? My mother's waiting outside in the car, but I don't want to leave if Kat needs me.”

He was so pissed he could hardly choke out a response. “Don't worry about Kat. I'll warn her.”

HE LIFTED HIS HEAD
off the pillow, not certain what had awakened him. His bedroom was dark. Too dark. A shadow had slipped over the moon, stealing the pale light that usually filtered through the drapes and across the buffed wood floor. An ominous, bone-chilling thrill of apprehension snaked up his spine.

Something was wrong.

He sat up, unsure of just how he knew this, yet he did. All his senses were on heightened alert, a preternatural response he'd come to expect in tense situations. But there was nothing unusual in his bedroom. Everything was in its place and in perfect order.

Had he been dreaming? He didn't remember. He rarely dreamed, and if he did, he didn't recall them often. His lips thinned in irritation.

A face appeared on the screen in his mind. Kaitlin Wells. He should have whacked the bitch today, but she'd been with people until midafternoon, when he'd been forced to stop shadowing her and go to an appointment. If Loretta Wells hadn't died at such an inconvenient time, Kat would have simply “gone missing,” and his problem would have evaporated.

The Sartianos would go apeshit if he attracted attention to the money he was funneling through the casino. The best way to divert everyone's interest was to get rid of the troublemaker. But he kept hitting road blocks. How long could he follow her before someone noticed?

He had to act fast. That was what was troubling him. The reason he'd awakened was simple. Self-preservation. When Kat Wells “went missing,” he could sleep peacefully again.

His scalp prickled a warning and he inhaled a deep breath to calm himself. Kat Wells had eluded him twice, but that didn't mean he'd lost the magic touch. Mr. Hyde would get rid of her tomorrow, he assured himself. Still, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling building inside him with the fury of a hurricane.

His sixth sense, and an attention to detail that bordered on compulsiveness, had always served him well. He rested his head against his pillow and stared up at the coffered ceiling. Outside his closed window, an owl hooted from a nearby tree.

He wasn't superstitious but his mother had always said, “If the owl calls your name, the angel of death is coming for you.”

He listened more closely, but the owl didn't hoot again or call anyone's name. All he heard was the creak of the house, already ancient when he'd been born. It made noises at night—friendly sounds. He could be Jekyll or Hyde and the house didn't care. It always welcomed him home like a long-lost son.

Thunk.

The muffled noise alerted him, and he rose up on his elbows. That wasn't a sound the house made. It might have been a car door, but he wasn't sure.

Like a dry twig, something brittle inside him snapped, and he swung his feet to the floor, then grabbed the bathrobe he always kept folded into a precise square at the foot of his bed. Over his shoulder he checked the clock glowing on his nightstand.

2:00 a.m.

He tiptoed to the window and peered down to the sweeping drive below.

What the fuck?

There were at least a dozen cars—police cars—on his driveway. Twin Oaks didn't even have that many squad cars!

Through the glass, he detected low, muffled male voices and caught the
clack
of a gun bolt on a high-powered rifle. A steel fist grabbed his gut in a death grip. He couldn't think straight, but he did notice none of the cars were using their lights. Why not? Only the moon and the tubular beams of flashlights illuminated the darkness.

Get a grip!

He drew back, telling himself there had to be some logical explanation. But he couldn't think of a damn one. Could his years of anonymity have been compromised without him knowing it?

What the fuck could have happened?

The Sartianos wouldn't roll over on him. Never. They were tough, prepared for anything. The only other option was…Cloris. He'd thought killing Elmer had eliminated their weak link, but something must have forced Cloris to talk.

What?

Could she have been convinced to reveal his identity? She had as much at stake as he did. In a heartbeat, he realized she must have cut a deal. Made sense. She had balls of steel; ratting on him wouldn't bother her for a second.

Run!

He sprinted across the room, then halted. He wasn't a quitter. He knew when to hold 'em and knew when to fold 'em. This game wasn't over until he ended it—on his terms.

 

J
USTIN STOOD
in front of the pitch-dark mansion. A few minutes ago, he thought he'd detected a movement at the window on the second floor. He'd squinted hard, then decided it had merely been a shifting shadow on the glass. Next to him, Special Agent Wilson gave orders to his men in a terse, low whisper.

Justin had had no choice but to contact the federal authorities in Jackson. As soon as he'd learned the identity of the drug linchpin here, he'd decided not to call in his own deputies until he had the feds backing him up. He couldn't afford to let the prick slip away.

Cloris had pointed them to the right man, but it was up to the authorities to make a case. Proving the bank was laundering money was going to be easy, but getting convictions for two murders would be more difficult. A good lawyer might convince a jury that the mastermind had been framed by the cops, had been abused as a child…pick your favorite “victim” defense.

The feds seemed to know more, but they hadn't clued him in yet. When he'd called with the money laundering info and the identity of the kingpin, they weren't surprised. If Kat was working with the feds—and he had no reason to doubt Abby Lester's story—the government had been trying to build a case against the Sartianos for a long time.

How Kat tied in, he wasn't sure. He was still all kinds of pissed at her. He hadn't bothered to call and let her know Cloris had squealed. He wasn't sure he could control his temper.

What kind of woman slept with you, let you protect her, let you put your career at risk for her—then didn't tell you she was working with the feds? Hadn't he proved she could trust him not to tell a soul? She'd used him.

He was positive the danger to her would be over once the feds made this arrest. Special Agent Wilson hadn't been concerned about her safety. If it appeared she might still be in danger, he would insist the feds move Kat into Witness Protection tomorrow.

If that happened, she would be gone months, maybe a year. That would be plenty of time for him to sort out his feelings for her. Get over her. Get on with his life.

“We're ready,” Special Agent Wilson whispered to him. “You want to ring the bell, then read him his rights?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Justin was pretty sure the darkness concealed his smile. Wilson was a good guy. Most career feds would have busted the ringleader themselves, but Wilson was allowing a small-town sheriff to take the credit.

Justin didn't have to glance over his shoulder to know David was back there somewhere. As soon as Abby Lester had left and Cloris had given Justin some details, David had raced out the door to the
Trib
for a camera. Justin knew he'd be ready to document the biggest story to hit Twin Oaks since General Lee's surrender.

Justin's stomach churned in anticipation as he led the phalanx of officers up the steps to the front door of the mansion. They all took care to walk silently but their footfalls echoed in the humid air. He ran the bell and waited, every muscle tense.

The light in the foyer went on, its soft glow gleaming through the majestic fanlight over the entry. The door swung open and Buck Mason stood there, fully dressed in a suit and tie as if he planned to drive to the office. Had he been tipped? Justin wondered. It didn't seem possible. He'd confiscated the cell phone Cloris had in her purse and warned her if she called Buck, she wouldn't be given any credit for helping the authorities.

“You're under arrest for the murders of Pequita Romero and Elmer Bitner.” Justin barked out the words in an attempt to conceal the immense satisfaction this arrest was giving him. “You have the right to remain silent. If—”

“I'm aware of my rights,” Buck said—not to Justin but to the men behind him with a hostile, unyielding stare. “You're making a big mistake. I—”

“Can it!” Justin waved the piece of paper he held in his hand. “We have a search warrant for your home and another for your pharmacy. Federal agents are already searching the bank and the riverboat.”

The news didn't seem to faze Buck in the least. He'd always been cold as ice, Justin thought. No wonder Verity had taken her own life. How depressing must it have been to have a father like Buck?

A flashbulb went off behind Justin—David, recording the event for an Extra! that would hit the streets just after Twin Oaks woke up. What a shock! The leading citizen who'd donated thousands to Waycross Christian University was actually a drug pusher.

“I'm not talking to any of you. I want to call my lawyer,” Buck said.

Justin wondered if he would call Clay Kincaid, then decided Buck was smart enough to have an attorney in Jackson. Clay was a lightweight with an addiction to gambling, just one of the secrets he'd learned when Cloris talked. She had been involved with Judge Kincaid, but the affair had ended last year when Kincaid became serious about his political career. A woman scorned, she'd been happy to talk about the Kincaids, but nothing she said would lead to their arrests. Justin had decided she'd hoped word would get back to David Noyes, and the salacious details of the judge's family life would appear in print. But Justin knew the Pulitzer Prize winner wouldn't trade in gossip.

“You can call your lawyer after we book you.” He held out a pair of handcuffs. “Hands behind your back.”

The flash went off again and again. Buck snarled into the blinding light.

“You've got an army with you. Is cuffing me necessary?” he asked, his face a study in self-control. If he'd been a card shark, it would have been impossible to tell if he held a winning or losing hand.

“Standard procedure,” Special Agent Wilson said before Justin could.

Buck took his time turning and stuck one arm behind his back. Justin handed the search warrant to an agent near him, then reached forward to cuff Buck. Quick as a snake, Buck whipped around, grabbed Justin by the arm, and rammed a pistol into his ribs.

“Step back! Anybody moves and Radner's dead.”

The men around him froze. Justin cursed himself. The minute he'd seen that Buck was dressed, he should have searched him.

“Okay, boys. Step back,” the special agent told his men. “What do you want, Mason? You can't get away.”

Buck jabbed Justin with the gun—hard enough to crack a rib. Justin stifled a gasp. “Don't bet on it. The good sheriff here is going to take me for a ride. If I even see so much as a headlight behind us, he's a dead man.”

“Sonofabitch!” muttered Special Agent Wilson.

“Let's go!” Buck again jammed Justin in the ribs with the pistol.

Justin walked ahead of Buck, who held onto Justin's arm and kept the gun crammed against his side. The men parted like the Red Sea. Out of the corner of his eye, Justin spotted David clutching the camera to his chest.

How in hell was he going to get out of this alive? He had the fleeting thought that he'd gloated waaaay too early. Buck had outsmarted people for years. Justin should have anticipated this. He wasn't ready to die, but Buck Mason was a desperate man. He wouldn't hesitate to kill.

He thought about Kat. How would she take his death? Would she care? Had she ever cared about him or had she merely been using him to help the feds? Unless he thought fast—and got lucky—he would never find out.

“Get in your car,” Buck told him when they reached the fleet of vehicles parked at the far end of the sweeping driveway.

Justin had no choice but to lead him over to the cruiser he'd been using all night. “You won't get away with this.”

“If you don't shut up, you won't live to find out if I do or not.”

Justin opened the door to the squad car and climbed into the vehicle. Buck walked around the front, the gun trained on Justin the entire time. He opened the passenger door, plopped down on the seat, and thwacked Justin on the side of the head with the pistol. A stab of pain arced through his head and radiated downward to his jaw.

“Drive. Head south on the river road.”

He wants to go out to the riverboat? Could there be someone at the casino who will help him? Justin turned on the ignition, then drove out of the driveway. In the rearview mirror, he saw the feds scrambling for their cars.

“You're just making things worse for yourself,” Justin said.

“You think I'd put myself through some damn trial that would last months and months? Why make some wise-ass attorney rich?”

In that instant Justin realized Buck Mason wasn't trying to escape the way he'd originally thought. The maniac wouldn't allow himself to be taken alive. He'd die first, but so would Justin. Somewhere from the back of his mind came the negotiation techniques he'd learned at the New Orleans Police Academy.

Keep them talking.

“I can't understand why you would stoop to selling drugs,” Justin said.

Buck snorted and poked Justin in the ribs with the pistol. “What do you know about me? I learned a few tricks at pharmacy school and found out I could make more money selling stuff to my friends at Ole Miss than my father or grandfather ever saw in their lives.”

He got that right. Justin knew a lot of the “old money” in Twin Oaks had actually been played out several generations earlier. The Masons, Kincaids and their friends coasted on the coattails of the family name.

“You were running the meth operation around here,” Justin said, trying to put a note of awe in his voice and make Buck think he was really clever.

It worked. “I had it all to myself, except I had to give Cloris a small cut to launder the money when my take got too damn big to hide from the IRS.” Buck sounded very pleased with himself. “My operation was running like a well-oiled engine until the riverboat arrived and the Sartianos insisted on getting a percentage.”