The Second Lie (9 page)

"Sorry," she muttered to her car as she settled both hands on the wheel and pushed her foot to the ground. The old Mustang gave her its all and roared up the long drive to Kyle's house. In another week or two, he'd be out harvesting, but this morning he should still be in the house, seeing that Grandpa was back asleep in bed if it was a bad day, or comfortably settled with blankets and pillows propping him in front of a movie on the TV. Or maybe Kyle was out in the barn with Radiance and Lillie. The colt was more than a month old and already showing promise that a second generation of Evans family horse breeding had begun.

Kyle came walking out of the barn to meet her. Good. Meeting him in the kitchen where she'd spent so much time as a kid, eating his grandpa's homemade chocolate-chip cookies and feeling more at home than she had in her own house, would have made what she had to say too difficult.

How could Kyle have done this to them? How could he have gone off and forgotten everything he was about, forgotten his morals and his...whatever...and fucked a prostitute? And if he had to screw around on Sam, how could he have done it without protection?

"Sam?" His frown marred an otherwise gorgeous face. "It's eight in the morning. What's wrong?"

She'd always thought Kyle's willingness to look her straight in the eye spoke of the absolute honesty between them. She'd cherished that.

Had his father known about Sherry Mahon? Did Grandpa know? Not that the dear old man would likely remember now.

"In the past six months you purchased large quantities of anhydrous ammonia...." She stood, hands down at her sides, keeping her open car door between them.

Right. The ammonia. In an alarming amount. And an ex-lover in jail for possession...

Part of Sam knew she might be overreacting. Part of her didn't care.

And some small portion of her heart was trying not to cry, needing to hear what Kyle had to say for himself.

"That's right." He named an amount. A little higher than her figures. But in a quick search, she might have missed something.

"And methanol..."

Again, the amount he named was higher than she'd thought.

Which struck the fear of God in her.

She looked around at the farm owned by a man she wasn't sure she knew.

He had the perfect setting. The perfect reputation. The perfect cover--a cop as his best friend. And he needed money, though he wouldn't tell her exactly how bad things were. She'd seen the signs. Even his beer was the cheapest on the market.

"You've never ordered those chemicals in such large quantities before." Having grown up as a part-time member of the Evans family, Sam knew a bit about farming. And over the past weeks, with Chuck's help, she'd done her homework about methamphetamine production.

Crossing his arms over his flannel shirt, Kyle stood--square shouldered, feet spread, a full seven inches taller than her--and scrutinized her as if she was a bug on Zodiac. Tired as she was, she had a flashback to another time, same place. They'd been about fourteen. She'd come out to ride his father's prized mare--she was the only one allowed, because she was light enough.

While helping her down, Kyle had stolen a kiss. She'd never been kissed. At first, he'd looked as shocked as she'd felt. But in the next instant, he'd changed. He'd stood, arms crossed, staring her down like he was doing right now, as if daring her to find anything wrong with his behavior.

"You've...used...anhydrous ammonia...as fertilizer."

"That's right."

"But this year, you planted less field and ordered twice as much."

"Yes."

Why the hell didn't he say something she could sink her teeth into? Something she could scream at him for?

She could hardly yell at him for having had sex once fifteen years ago with another woman.

He stood there, all long-haired, clean-shaven he-man. Why didn't he just take her to bed?

No. She hadn't thought that. Didn't want that. Not now. Not like this.

But she remembered another time--the day she'd come back to Kyle begging for her ring. They'd made love that night. Again and again. Kyle had been more tender, more...everything. He'd touched her as if she was an angel from heaven.

She'd never forgotten.

"In all of my research I haven't found one practical use for methanol on a farm--at least, not in the quantities you ordered."

"Okay."

"I'm guessing you haven't taken up a sudden interest in racing cars, right?" Methanol purchases were common in the world of racing. At least, that's what she'd read on the Internet.

"Nope, can't say I have."

"Why are you being this way?"

"I might ask you the same thing. You look like hell, by the way. Rough night?"

"I...didn't sleep much."

She could sense him closing in on himself. There probably weren't any physical signs, but she felt his withdrawal just the same. "Who's the lucky guy?"

They both knew that some day there'd be other people in their lives. Neither of them wanted to grow old alone.

"Kyle, if you're in trouble, you know you can come to me...." She'd do what she could. Anything she could. She loved him.

She was begging again.

And she wouldn't break the law for him. He knew that.

"I'm not in trouble."

"Can you explain to me why you are suddenly purchasing large quantities of chemicals used to make methamphetamine?"

"Yes."

"Then why haven't you?"

"You haven't asked."

Okay, not technically, but...

Kyle pulled her forward and shoved the door shut. "You come blazing out here when the day's barely begun, with all this distance between us and accusation in your tone, and you have the nerve to think I owe you anything?"

What was this? She'd never, ever felt unwelcome on the Evans farm. Not even during the months Kyle was married. "Twenty years of friendship stands for nothing, I guess."

"Exactly what I'm thinking." The hurt in his eyes said far more to her than the words he'd shot back at her.

"You're right. I'm sorry." She looked him straight in the eye. "Really sorry." And scared as hell, too.

He stood, arms crossed over his chest again, saying nothing.

She had a ton to say. About a woman he may or may not have seen in recent years. About lies of omission and possible offspring. About faith and trust and betrayal and...

She was hurt. Not a good time to unload.

"Will you please tell me why you bought the chemicals?"

"You want the technical version or the more general one?"

"Let's start general."

"The methanol I bought was derived in part from glycerol. Glycerol is a base of sugar, which is high in starch. Methanol is also a gas that, when combined with other things, can be used as a denaturing agent. I experimented and used my final product to soak my prototype seeds. And then soaked them in anhydrous ammonia. All before planting. I also used the ammonia as fertilizer. If you buy in quantity there's a price break. As you already know, my theory is that I can grow corn that has twice the starch per kernel. If I can come up with a way to do this, the cost of producing ethanol could be cut in half. Or at least severely reduced."

He wasn't making meth. Thank God. He wasn't supplying his ex-lover. Oh, thank God. He was...

"Those chemicals are dangerous, Kyle. Long-term exposure could kill you--heck, even short-term exposure--or make you really sick. You ingest five teaspoons of methanol and you could go blind. Or die. Or--"

"I know. That's part of the reason I'm starting out small. And I'm working alone so I'm not exposing anyone else."

"You aren't a chemist. These things should be left to trained scientists. In laboratories. Where everything is protected."

If anything happened to Kyle...

"I know what I'm doing, Sam. I do have a degree in chemistry, remember?"

Yeah. She'd forgotten. He'd double-majored.

"I've been talking about this since high school. Where you been?"

"Here. I listened." Sort of. "I just didn't realize that your project involved methanol." Or anything really dangerous. She should have paid more attention. Cared more.

Same old story with them. The farm was Kyle's life. To her it was the kiss of death. Death by boredom.

"I'm sorry I doubted you. Not that I did, really." Okay, she had. And it didn't help that Sherry Mahon's name had muddied the waters. When she calmed down enough to be rational, she would ask him about the woman. "I'm just tired. And going crazy with this meth thing."

"I thought you were leaving that alone."

"I can't, Kyle."

"Sam..."

"I'm telling you, with the quantities we're seeing, I know there's some kind of mass production going on around here. Chuck thinks so, too. At least, he thinks we're getting large shipments from someplace and is as determined as I am to put a stop to it."

"You've been at this all night, haven't you? Investigating?"

"I've been studying. Going through records. Yeah."

"Be careful, Sam. You're going to end up like your dad."

And that's why she hadn't told him in the first place what she was doing.

"This is different, Kyle. And I
am
careful. Meth has been killing people in Fort County over the past two years and the numbers are increasing. It won't be long before it starts hitting our friends...."

"If it's that bad, why isn't it all over the news?"

"It is."

But then, Kyle didn't watch the news.

Kyle was particularly eager for Friday night's dart game after his encounter with Sam. Growing up on a farm had taught him that life was like a business. It created daily jobs that, when done well, reaped worthy rewards. And then you moved on to the next one.

Life on a farm taught you early that there would always be another chore. The work was never done.

An addendum to the lesson had been added at some unknown point: meeting responsibilities brings fulfillment. Reward.

Playing darts was neither a job, nor a responsibility.

So Kyle, being Kyle, filed it in the reward category and got on with it.

He supplied the beer--enough to last them through a heated competition without putting any of them over the legal driving limit.

Even in pleasure, responsibility ruled. Kyle was okay with that.

He was also okay with wiping the barn floor with his opponents. In a testosterone-laced contest, Kyle was clearly the master. The trouble with David and Pierce was that they tried too hard. The trick was just to relax, grip the barrel lightly, let the dart flow and trust it to do its job.

"Fish face." Pierce grinned as David scored eight measly points, taking his three-twenty down to three-twelve. Scoring less than nine on a single turn was sometimes called a fish. Not fish face. But two legs into the match and a few beers later, who cared? At two-eighty, Pierce didn't have a lot of room to talk, anyway. Kyle was sitting on twenty--a count down from the five-oh-one they'd all started at. He had to hit it exact--with a three-dart throw.

"At least I'm no whale," David shot back, swigging on his beer as he rubbed in the fact that on two different occasions Pierce had scored less than three points on his turn. A whale.

"One of the many problems with the two of you is you aim for the bull's-eye." Kyle stepped up to the line, the barrel of his first dart resting familiarly against his thumb and first two fingers. Keeping his eye on the five, he hit it once. Then twice. And went for the double.

Which he scored with a perfect glide.

"Leg and match, guys. You want another?" He collected his darts.

"No way, man." Pierce shook his head and pulled a twenty out of his pocket with a rueful grin. "You remind me of my sister," he said. "Don't know when to quit. Damn good thing the rest of us are here to keep you in line."

Kyle pocketed the twenty. And the one David handed him, too.

"What's she up to now?" he asked, not sure he wanted to hear anything about Sam. He was relaxed. Feeling good. Wasn't even sure why he'd asked.

"Obsessing."

Kyle wasn't surprised Pierce would say that. Nor did he want to get involved. "About the existence of a superlab here in Fort County?"

"So she's talked to you, too."

"Yeah." He wasn't going to say more than that.

All trace of fun was gone from Pierce. His face was lined with a worry that had been years in the making.

"A superlab?" David, who'd gone over to run a gentle hand along Rad's neck, turned back to them.

"My sister has it in her head that there's some mass methamphetamine production lab around these parts. One large enough to supply the whole county and beyond...."

"Wow. I hadn't heard. I thought everything came from Mexico."

"You and everyone else," Pierce said.

David shook his head. "Sam's usually spot-on. Is there any validity to her concern?"

"Not that I know of," Pierce was quick to point out, as if by making the idea sound far-fetched, the whole problem would just go away.

"She was present when some executive, high on meth, blew his head off," Kyle said.

"The Holmes case?" David asked.

Kyle wasn't surprised he knew the story. It had been in all the papers. Minus the names of the officers present. "Yeah."

"And from that she figures there's a lab nearby? Because of one user?"

"Pretty much," Pierce said. Kyle let the statement stand, though he knew there was a lot more to it than that.

Pierce shook his head. "My sister's a great cop, but she's too much like my dad. She gets an idea in that thick brain of hers and she won't let it go."

"So what's it hurt to have her poking around?" David was frowning, and Kyle wondered how hard it was to be the father of four kids--soon five--in today's world.

He wondered about being the father of one kid.

"The worst that's going to happen is that she won't find anything," David said. "And if she does, she earns a few steps up the ladder for doing a great job and keeping us all safe."

David wasn't predisposed to worry about Sam like he and Pierce were.

And put the way David had said it, Sam's obsession didn't sound so...wrongheaded. Or threatening.