He chuckled in appreciation of her humor. "That dumb act won't wash with me, Mrs. Burnwood. You've got yourself a hot case."
"True. I like sinking my teeth into something as heinous as assault and battery and rape."
"How about murder one?"
"Murder one?" she asked, sounding stunned. "Are we talking about the same case?"
"Lottie Lynam."
"You're going for murder one? I'm speechless."'
"You've seen the same evidence reports that I have."
"So how could you have missed the pictures of Mrs. Lynam taken at the hospital, or the files on her previous hospital visits, or the police reports documenting the violent domestic disturbances at the Lynams' house?"
"All of which support my argument of premeditation," he said. "Lottie had a lot of reasons to do it and a long time to think about it. She'll be indicted for murder with malice and aforethought. Were you hoping for manslaughter? Forget it.
Your client thought it over for hours last night before finally deciding to plug Charlie."
"That can't be proved and you know it, Daboey. Right off the top of my head, I can think of a hundred ways to work in reasonable doubt."
"Okay, Counselor, let's stop beating around the bush," he said after a thoughtful moment. "Charlie Lynam isn't exactly a sympathetic victim. Everybody knows that he drank too much and routinely worked Lottie over. Let's save the taxpayers some money, and ourselves a lot of time."
"What's your best offer?" she asked, cutting to the chase.
"You get Lottie to plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter.
She'll probably get twenty and serve eight at most."
"Thank you, but no thanks. My client is not guilty."
"Not guilty!" Now it was his turn to sound dismayed.
"You're entering a not-guilty plea?"
"That's exactly what I'm going to do."
"What's your defense, insanity?"
"Lottie Lynam is perfectly sane. She knew what she had to do in order to save her own life. Granted, it was a desperate move, but killing her husband was an obvious act of self defense."
, Chapter 10
r. Pepperdyne?"
"In here," he called.
The younger, greener agent bustled into the small kitchen.
Pepperdyne glanced up from his perusal of Kendall Burnwood's household accounts, which were spread before him on the table.
"Something?"
"Yes, sir. We just found this in the bedroom. It was taped to the underside of a bureau drawer."
Pepperdyne took the-bundle of papers from the excited agent and began reading them. His subordinate, too keyed up to sit still, paced the narrow space between the table and stove. "I thought that business about the preacher that Bob Whitaker was particularly interesting," he ventured. "Did we know that he never graduated seminary and in fact was asked to leave because his beliefs were so unorthodox?"
"No," Pepperdyne admitted tightly.
"But Mrs. Burnwood knew it. She made it her business to know. It's all documented."
"Hmm. Our Mrs. Burnwood must have been awfully busy."
"And there's a whole dossier on the D.A. in Prosper. Except that in South Carolina they're called solicitors. Have you read that yet?"
"Summarize it for me."
"Gore was disbarred in Louisiana. That's when he moved to South Carolina. A few years later he's elected solicitor in Prosper County. Fishy, to say the least. And there's even more about the judge. Bankers, school administrators, law officers.
You name a pillar of that community and she's chipped away at his foundation, exposing a crack wide enough to drive a Mack truck through. It's all in there."
In spite of himself, Pepperdyne was impressed by the extensive research, which rivaled some the department had turned out.
"It must've taken her a lot of time to do this much research,"
the other agent remarked. "And smarts."
"Oh, she's got plenty of smarts," Pepperdyne said. "She's also as slippery as snot on a doorknob."
"It's been almost two weeks since they left the hospital, and not a trace of them."
"I know how long it's been," Pepperdyne snapped. He shot to his feet, the sudden movement almost toppling the tiny kitchen table. His tone sent his subordinate scuttling out of the room, muttering something about continuing the search in the bedroom.
Pepperdyne moved to the kitchen sink. On the windowsill above it, a limp ivy was putting up a valiant struggle for survival despite its lack of water. It was in a ceramic pot with sunflowers on it. The window curtains had tiebacks also shaped like sunflowers. Pepperdyne caught himself fingering one, a partial smile on his lips.
These Belong to a kidnapper, he reminded himself, snatching back his hand.
But at least they didn't belong to a killer. The autopsy performed on the body recovered from the auto accident in Georgia proved that the passenger had died from the impact of the crash. Mrs. Burnwood hadn't let her drown. So she wasn't a killer. Yet.
Pepperdyne gazed out the window, ruminating over what this most recent discovery revealed about Mrs. Burnwood and the people in South Carolina with whom she'd had dealings.
The more he learned, the less he knew. Every question that was answered prompted another one even more complex and alarming. The longer they were missing, the colder their trail became.
Cursing softly, he banged his fist against the windowsill.
"Where are you, lady? And what have you done with him?"
The wall phone rang. Pepperdyne's head snapped around.
He seared at the instrument. It rang a second time. There was an outside chance that someone was calling Kendall Burnwood, someone who might give them a clue to go on. If that was the case, he didn't want to scare him off.
His gut clenching, he lifted the receiver and said a cautious hello.
"Mr. Pepperdyne?"
"Speaking," he said, relaxing.
"Rawlins, sir. We've got something."
Pepperdyne's stomach quickened again when he recognized the name of one of the agents who had stayed behind in Stephensville, Georgia. "I'm listening."
"We've got a man here who says he sold a car to Kendall Burnwood. He's identified her by her picture."
"Positively identified?"
"No question."
"Where in hell has he been all this time?"
"Visiting his grandkids in Florida. He'd never flown before, so he bought a plane ticket to Miami with the money Mrs. Burnwood paid him for the car."
"She had cash?"
"That's what he said.
Bad news. She wouldn't be leaving a paper trail. Not that she would be that careless, but one could always hope.
"He was out of town when we did the door-co-door search,"
the agent added. "Just got back last night, he said, and was catching up on local news when he saw her picture in the paper. He read the story and called us."
"get out an APB on that car."
"It's done, sir."
"Good. Keep tabs on him. I'm on my way.
Chapter 11
Make them stop! I can't stand it. Stop their crying, stop their crying, stop their crying. Oh, Jesus! Oh, God. No!"
His own scream woke him up. He sprang into a sitting position and glanced around wildly. Automatically he went for the weapon he had secreted beneath the mattress.
"It's not there." It was Kendall's voice. He could hear her, but he couldn't see her. "I took it and hid it where you can't find it this time."
He shook his head clear, searched the room for her, and eventually spotted her sprawled on the floor at the side of the bed. "What happened? What are you doing on the floor?"
"This is where I landed when you knocked me off the bed.
You were having a nightmare and I was tr ying to wake you up. I got a fist in my shoulder."
"Are you hurt?"
"No," she said, pulling herself to her feet.
His heart was racing, and he was bathed in sweat. Feeling weak and disoriented, he raised the knee of his uninjured leg and rested his forehead on it.
"It must have been a doozy," she remarked. "Do you remember any of it?"
Raising his head, he looked up at her. "Luckily I don't. It scared the shit out of me."
"You're soaking wet. I'll get you a washcloth."
While she was out of the room, he got up, moved to the window, and sat in the straight chair. He raised the shade and was disappointed to see that the day was as dusty and still as it had been when he'd decided to surrender to his lethargy and take a nap. After the heavy rains two weeks ago, they were now in a dry spell. The heat was enervating.
He glanced over his bare shoulder at the twisted, sweaty sheets. "Sorry about that," he remarked to Kendall as she reentered the room.
"It won't be any trouble to change the bed." She hesitated, then added, "This isn't the first time you've had that night mare."
"No?"
"No, but this time was by far the worst. Do you feel better now?"
He nodded and gratefully accepted the glass of lemonade she had carried in on a tray. His hand was shaking. He took several deep swallows of the icy lemonade, then rolled the cold glass against his forehead.
When he felt the cool cloth applied to his back, he was astonished. Ordinarily she went out of her way to avoid touching him.
Now, she moved the cloth across his shoulders, down his sides over his ribs, and along his spine to the small of his back, where sweat had pooled. The soft cloth felt deliciously cool, comforting. Her touch was light.
It reminded him of the way she was with her baby. For whatever else she might be, she was an excellent mother.
Gentle. Giving. Attentive. Loving. She reveled in the role.
The infant prompted easy, natural smiles from her that lit up her face.
He'd observed her, usually when she wasn't aware of it, as she tended to the child. There were times when he almost envied the kid. He couldn't remember his infancy, of course, but being fussed over that way was beyond his imagination.
He doubted that he had ever been loved that wholeheartedly, either as a child or as an adult.
He wondered, too, if he was capable of loving another human being so unselfishly and completely. It bothered him to think not.
"Better?" She rolled the cloth into a compress and laid it against the nape of his neck.
"Yeah. Thanks." Spontaneously he reached behind his head and covered her hand with his. He held the compress against his nape for several moments, her hand sandwiched between his palm and the cloth. "Much better."
"Good."
Eventually he removed his hand and she withdrew hers. He then used the cloth to bathe his chest and stomach, which he suddenly wished were harder, firmer, younger. When he caught Kendall watching him, she turned away quickly.
They both began speaking at once.
"I've brought"
"What's all that for?"
"In a minute," she said, responding to his question. "Give yourself time to catch your breath."
She sat on the edge of the bed and demurely folded her hands in her lap. She wore shorts every day, so her legs had tanned. He figured she shaved them every time she bathed, because they always looked silky smooth. They looked smooth.
He didn't know from experience,- because, since that morning he had kissed her, he hadn't touched her again. For reasons as yet unknown to him, she had instituted a hands-off policy.
He had tried to convince himself that the taboo was okay with him. If that's the way she- wanted it, fine.
But it wasn't fine. He was suffering from a near-terminal case of lust. Living with her as her husband, while conducting himself like a stranger, was becoming more of a strain each day. He pulled his eyes away from her legs and her small, narrow feet.
Who is this woman?
What was she running from? he wondered. And she was running. She could deny it till doomsday, but he knew that something beyond the four walls of this house terrified her.
Several times each night, she left the bed and tiptoed through the rooms, peering out the windows, scanning the yard. For what? He always pretended to sleep through her nocturnal patrols, but he was aware of them. Not knowing the reason for her vigilance bugged him.
Sometimes the frustration of not knowing drove him nuts.
Why wouldn't she confide in him and let him help her? The only reason he could think of was that he was part of her problem. That was an upsetting possibility, but she could have dispelled it with a few simple, straightforward answers.
Fat chance. He had slept beside her every night for two long weeks, but he hadn't won her confidence.
He knew the pattern of her slumberous breathing, but she was still a stranger to him. Even blindfolded he would recognize her scent and the sound of her voice, but she didn't belong to him. He would have bet his life on that.
"How'd you find the pistol?" he asked.
"There aren't that many hiding places accessible to a man on crutches."
Their first morning there, while she had been rummaging around in the kitchen, he had rifled through her things and discovered the pistol in the kid's diaper bag, the last place one would expect to find a lethal weapon. Which confirmed what he had believed all along she had been lying through her teeth. The situation wasn't nearly as harmless as she wanted it to appear.
Naturally, Kendall had become extremely upset when she saw him with the gun. She had accused him of snooping and meddling, to which he confessed, but when she had demented that he return the pistol to her, he had laughed in her face.
