Playing Dead in Dixie (16 page)

And get them both killed.

WES FOUND AN OVERNIGHT LETTER from the NTSB waiting on his desk when he returned from lunch.  He dropped into his chair, tore open the mailer and withdrew the papers inside.

The official investigation would not be finished for several months, blah, blah, blah.   Thirty-eight on the bus, thirty-seven accounted for so far.   Twenty-two survivors, fifteen dead—his heart clenched at the memory of Steve's body, cold on a slab—and one missing.  A passenger manifest showing thirty-eight names, but nothing to tell him which of the names belonged to the living and which to the dead.

No details. Nothing beyond the sketchiest of information a friend on the NTSB had sent as a courtesy.

Wes dropped the papers on his desk and leaned his head back, closing his gritty eyes against the midday sunlight pouring through the window next to his desk.  He was a good five or six years past the age where he could stay up all night and not feel the consequences.

And lunch had hardly been a relaxing affair.

Carly was afraid of something.  He'd seen it in her wary eyes when he told her he was going to uncover her secrets.  She had blanched, her eyes growing wide and dark with a quiet, bloodless terror that had turned his insides to ice.

Someone was looking for her.  He could feel it, a storm gathering on the horizon, pregnant with menace.  And it wasn't just Carly standing in its path.  It was the whole town.  His family.  His friends.

How was he going to protect them all?

He was so damned tired.  Tired and worried and frustrated.  Not just by Carly's secrecy but by his own inability to keep his distance.  She was getting to him, in big ways and little ways, until he didn't know whether he was protecting his family against her or protecting her against—

—what?  An abusive boyfriend?  An angry husband?  The police?  The federal government?

What was behind that big, black cloud bruising the horizon?

"YOU LOOK BEAT," Shannon observed.

Carly dropped onto the end of the bed. "That's because I am beat."

"I thought you were supposed to be home by four."  Shannon put aside the sketch book propped on her belly.

"The store was busy.  I offered to stay a little longer to help out."  And to keep an eye on Sherry Clayton, Carly added silently.  By the time she got back to the store after lunch, Sherry was back on the sales floor, waiting for Carly to return so she could take her own lunch break.

As far as Carly could tell, Sherry hadn't gone back into Floyd's office for the rest of the day.  Carly had waited with Floyd until he closed, taking advantage of his inattention to do a quick check of the drawers and file cabinets.  Nothing seemed to be missing, although Carly hadn't had time for more than a cursory look.

Friday was safely out of the way.  Just three more days to sweat it out before she finally got her chance to take a long, hard look at the hardware store's books.

"What do you think of this outfit?"  Shannon held out her sketchpad toward Carly.

Carly took a look.  "Oh, Shannon, this is gorgeous."

"I've never designed a wedding dress before, but this one sort of came to me, out of the blue."

It was a sleek confection of shimmery white—silk, Shannon's notes said—with a draped neck and plunging back.  Sleeveless and floor-length, with a modest, lace-edged train.

It took a couple of seconds for the rest of the sketch to register in her weary brain.  When it did, she looked up sharply at Shannon.  "Just came to you out of the blue?"

Shannon's cheeks turned pink, and she smiled sheepishly.  "I'm a romantic.  So sue me."

"I wish I looked that good."  The face of the dress model was a stylized rendering of Carly's own face, from the sweep of dark hair to the full, raspberry-pink lips.

"Who are you kidding?  You look better."  Shannon blew a curly red tendril away from her face.  "Perfect body, perfect features, perfect skin—"

"Perfect mess of a life," Carly finished for her.  "Besides, you're no slouch yourself."

"I'm a beached whale with freckles," Shannon countered flatly.  She rubbed her belly.  "Scooter will pop out of me sooner or later, and I'll lose at least some of the weight, but I'm always going to look like Pippi Longstocking."

Carly chuckled at the image.  "You're beautiful, and you know it."

Shannon's eyes grew suspiciously bright.  "It's sweet of you to say that."

"Sweet?  I'm from Jersey, babe.  We don't do sweet."

"I bet Wes thinks you're sweet."

Carly made a face.  "Wes thinks I'm trouble."

"Men love trouble, Carly.  They live for it."  Shannon's comment was light enough, but Carly sensed a dark thread of pain just beneath the surface.  Remembering what Wes had told her about Shannon's late husband, she could understand why.

"You need a bath," Shannon said, filling the thick silence that had fallen between them.

Carly arched an eyebrow.  "Gee, thanks."

Shannon chuckled.  "Let me rephrase.  Go soak your head."

Carly laughed.  "Yeah, that's a lot better."

"Seriously, you look ready to drop.  Go take a nice, long soak in the tub, and then get a good night's sleep.  I don't need you to baby sit, really.  Bonnie will be in here any minute with Jackson to put him down for the night, anyway.  Go.  I'll see you in the morning."

Carly wasn't about to argue.  The thought of a hot bubble bath and a nice soft bed was tempting enough to make her drool.  "Yell if you need me."

"Will do.  G'night, Carly.  Sweet dreams of you know who."  Shannon giggled as Carly made a face on her way out of the bedroom.

Five minutes later, Carly was neck deep in bubbles, half asleep.  In the luxury of heat and fragrance, it was easy to pretend that she was just a normal girl, doing normal girly things like soaking in a hot bubble bath and daydreaming about a hunky man with broad shoulders and smoldering brown eyes.

What kind of name was Hollingsworth? she mused, her eyelids drooping.  Sounded sort of English.  The English had settled this part of the United States, hadn't they?  She was pretty sure Georgia was one of the original thirteen colonies.

Maybe his ancestors had come over on the Mayflower.  No, that didn't seem quite right.  Starched pilgrims and Wes Hollingsworth's sinful sexiness didn't quite jibe.

Besides, he looked like he had a little Native American blood.  Didn't she read somewhere that most native Southerners had at least one Indian ancestor?

Something like that.

Her eyes slid shut and she sank lower in the suds until her chin rested in the warm water.  She could picture him as an Indian, dressed in a buckskin loincloth, his dark skin glistening in the sun . . .

Hmm, did Indians in the south have loincloths?

They damned well should have had loincloths—

"Lottie?"

The voice was soft.  A little gravelly.  Inflected with just a hint of the old country.  Carly tried to open her eyes, but nothing happened.

"Did you think you'd get away from me, Lottie girl?" the voice asked.  Dominick Manning's voice, smooth and deadly.  "Did you think I'd fall for your trick?"

Her heart clutched in her chest.  Nausea roiled deep in her belly, greasy and cold.

She struggled against her curiously unresponsive body, tried to move her arms, her legs, tried to open her eyes, open her mouth to release the scream building like a flood inside her throat.

She felt his breath on her cheek.  "I'm coming, Lottie.  He won't be able to save you."

She broke through the paralysis and shot up in the tub, sending water sloshing over the rim onto the tile floor.  The scream beating at the back of her throat squeezed out as a soft, broken croak.  Eyes darting, she took a frantic look around the bathroom.  The door was closed.  Nothing looked out of place.

She was alone.

Gasping for breath, she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to still the shudders rippling through her.  Her heart hammered against in her chest, feeding the queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach.

A dream, she thought.  She'd fallen asleep in the tub, opening her mind to her worst nightmare.

I'm coming, Lottie.  He won't be able to save you.

She rose to her feet, holding onto the towel rack to keep from toppling over as her shaking knees threatened to buckle. Her stomach bucked and rolled, forcing her into movement.  She made it to the toilet without a second to spare.

When her stomach was empty and the dry retches subsided, she sank back against the cold porcelain tub, tears squeezing from her eyes.

Dominick Manning might be a gambler at heart, but he didn't take foolish chances.  The meticulously cooked casino books would have been replaced already, leaving only Carly's testimony—and the photocopies she'd secretly stashed away in her sister's safe deposit box in Philly—between him and beating the rap.  She would be the only loose end.

And Dominick Manning didn't leave loose ends.

Sooner or later, all the other bodies from the bus crash would show up downriver.  Everyone would be accounted for except her.  And Dom would know.

He wouldn't just let it go.  Not with a grand jury investigation hanging over his head.

Her time was running out.

Chapter Nine

GEORGIA'S QUARTERBACK DROPPED into the pocket and found a receiver downfield.  Threading the needle, he timed the pass perfectly, just as the receiver broke free of close coverage.  The receiver snagged the ball, tucked it under his arm and zigzagged through the remaining defenders toward the goal line.

"Yes!"  Wes grinned at his father.  J.B. grinned back.

Thank God for Georgia football, the one thing he could still share with his father without reservation.

Sometimes they included Floyd in their male bonding ritual, settling in most Saturdays from September to November to watch the Bulldogs on the gridiron.  They met at J.B.'s house for the sake of convenience, Wes and his father sharing the couch and Floyd—who was only related by marriage, after all—seated a little apart in the overstuffed armchair near the fireplace.

Floyd made a grumbling noise and put down his bowl of popcorn.  "I've got to head out, fellows."

J.B. gestured at the television.  "A quarter to go yet."

Floyd pushed himself out of the arm chair.  "I know, but Bonnie's home watching after Shannon and her little boy, and someone's got to pick up Carly at the store—"

"I'll pick her up," Wes offered.

J.B. and Floyd cut their eyes at each other.  A slow grin spread across his uncle's face.

"Which you knew I'd offer to do," Wes guessed.

Floyd sat down.  "You ain't exactly hidin' it, boy."

"I'm looking out for you, Floyd.  Stranger in town—a good lawman's got to keep an eye on her."  He didn't even try to make the excuse sound believable.  He wasn't buying it himself.

"Yeah, that's why you're sending me and Bonnie to Savannah overnight.  So you can keep an eye on her."  Floyd grinned.

Wes was just glad his aunt and uncle had agreed to the overnight stay at Inglewood Bed and Breakfast.  Bonnie had shown signs of being stubborn about leaving Shannon and Carly to fend for themselves for a whole evening, but Wes's promise to stay with the women overnight seemed to soothe her worries.

Or maybe Bonnie's matchmaking instincts were stronger than her hostess instincts, he thought as he headed out to his truck.

Once behind the wheel, he paused with his key in the ignition.  Would everybody in Bangor be so keen to see him hook up with the newcomer if they understood that she just wasn't small town material?

Sure, he liked her.  Carly was easy to like.  But she wasn't the kind of girl who was going to settle in and join the garden club or volunteer to host a Girl Scout meeting in her den.  She was halfway out of town already, at least in her heart.  Maybe nobody else around there knew that, but Wes did.

Unfortunately, it didn't keep him from wanting her.

Okay.  He wanted her.  He wanted a lot of things.  Some he could have.  Others he couldn't.

The question was, which one was Carly?

BY SIX,THE LAST CUSTOMER cleared the store, leaving Carly alone with Josh Scarborough, who'd helped her cover the last few hours of the Saturday shift.  Floyd had left the store a little after two to watch football with Wes and J.B.

Carly wasn't much of a football fan herself, but she wished she could have gone, too.  Once the ball game had started around two-thirty, store business fell off to nothing.  She'd spent most of her time familiarizing herself with the vendors who supplied most of their products, hoping to be better prepared to tackle the books on Monday night.

As she was closing the register, Josh stocked the last of the new screwdriver sets that had come in late Friday afternoon and approached the sales counter, peeling off his uniform vest.  "You want me to stay and help you close?"

She shook her head.  She hoped to use her few minutes alone at the store to take a look at the files and make sure nobody had tampered with them.  "I've got it covered.  Why don't you run and see if you can catch the last of the ball game?"

"Don't have to ask me twice!" Josh shot her a grin.  "I'm going out the back way.  See ya Monday!"

Carly put the money from the cash register in a bag, laid it on a shelf under the sales counter and went to lock the front door.  She was just turning the key in the door when a shadowy silhouette passed between her and the setting sun pouring rosy light through the glass front windows.

Tall.  Broad-shouldered.  Wearing jeans.  Her heart leapt into her throat and scampering off like a dog after a rabbit.

Wes.

He smiled at her through the glass.  "Gonna let me in or do I have to know a password or something?"

She unlocked the door and let him in, taking care to hide her excitement when she spoke.  "I thought you and the boys were watching a football game or something."

"Georgia versus Fielding State.  I think the Dawgs have it safely under control."  He waited for her to re-lock the door and followed her toward the back of the store.  "Floyd maneuvered me into pulling chauffeur duty."