Chapter 17 #2
Lots of teenagers ticked church services off their must-do lists as soon as they were old enough to make their own choices.
“It’s not unusual for teenagers to decide church isn’t worth their time,” Sarah reminded the older woman.
She’d made that decision by the time she was sixteen, but her aunt hadn’t let her off the hook until college.
The lady shook her head. “Valerie wasn’t like that.
She was a good girl. Refusing to go to church was not like her at all.
Her mama worried about it for a while, but then she figured it was probably the college influence.
” The cashier hit the total button. “I don’t believe it, though.
Uh-uh. There’s more to it than that. Nineteen forty-eight. ”
Sarah handed her a twenty. “What’s this minister’s name?”
“Christopher Mahaney.” She took Sarah’s money. “It was probably his doing—that her folks believed she’d gone off to college and left God behind and all.”
Something else the chief hadn’t mentioned. A new name to add to Sarah’s talk-to list. “Thanks.” She dropped the change into her wallet. As an afterthought, she pulled a card from her bag and offered it to the cashier. “You call me if you think of anything else that might be helpful.”
The lady nodded. “I’ll be glad to.” She pointed a disgusted look toward the street. “There’s something rotten in this town, and I think it’s that so-called man of God.” She leaned toward Sarah again. “The old devil goes after ministers, too. Sometimes he’s successful.”
Sarah thanked her again and headed for the door. She ripped the tags from her purchases and slid the sunglasses into place, then tugged on the gloves and stepped onto the sidewalk.
More locals awaiting news had gathered at the library. Sarah slipped into the fringes and tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.
Snatches of conversation from the locals filtered through the rumble. Some folks believed that Alicia Appleton’s body had been discovered. Others insisted she had been found alive.
Ah, there was a mention of Sarah. Troublemaker. Had Rachel Appleton in tears. Tried to force a confession out of Bart Harvey’s boy.
Oh, wow. Maybe she was the devil that kid had spoken of.
The cashier’s mention of the devil nudged Sarah.
People around here needed to wake up. This killer was someone they likely knew. Assuredly not the devil. Not that she believed in the devil.
Silence fell over the crowd, and a sudden forward surge announced that the chief had made his appearance.
Sarah tiptoed to see above the shoulders of the men in front of her. Mayor Patterson stood next to the chief, his polished suit and deep-navy tie making him look particularly distinguished in comparison to the chief’s khakis and uniform-style coat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press . . .”
Sarah settled onto the soles of her Converses and waited for the important parts. The whole “I appreciate your support” and all that jazz she could do without.
Finally he got to the real news.
The silence that hung in the air hummed with tension.
Even Sarah stretched up onto her toes once more.
The chief didn’t spell out the details of the evidence, but he informed the crowd that there was reason to believe that the person responsible for Valerie Gerard’s death was an intimate.
Sarah rolled her eyes. Come on, Chief, she silently urged. Tell them they’d better start paying more attention to what their neighbors are doing. Keep their young girls off the street after dark, et cetera.
“That’s not very nice,” a too-familiar male voice whispered in her ear.
Sarah bolted forward.
Strong hands grabbed her shoulders in the nick of time to prevent her from bumping into the guy in front of her. Sarah whipped around and came face-to-face with Kale Conner.
He put a finger to his lips and pointed to the chief.
Annoyed as hell, she turned her attention back to the library steps where the chief was assuring the crowd that no stone would be left unturned. How original. And, finally, he urged all citizens to be cooperative and aware. Hard questions would need to be asked—and answered.
Reporters started firing questions, and Sarah was ready to go while they were distracted. She skirted the traitor standing behind her.
“Newton.”
She glared at Conner. “Shhh!”
“Sorry.” He started after her. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
That he continued to follow her to the corner and down the side street to the parking area she’d used cranked up her irritation. Kale Conner was one of those guys who wanted everybody to like him. The kind who couldn’t deal with the idea that someone held ill will toward him.
Tough.
She avoided the icy patches, opting for the crunchy snow instead. The cold, wet stuff poked into her shoes and up her pants legs all over again, but she didn’t care.
She had a list of people to interview: Melody Harvey, for one. A man of the cloth named Mahaney, for another.
At her car, she faced her stalker. “What do you want, Conner?”
He seemed temporarily at a loss for words. Turning his hands palms up, he shrugged. “I thought you were going back to the inn. I went there looking for you, but—”
Shoving her cell phone in his face, she waved it back and forth. “Ever heard of using one of these?” If he planned to say he’d wanted to let her know about the press conference and couldn’t find her, he could forget about it.
“My cell died on me and I don’t have one of those car chargers. I—”
“You lied to me. Again,” she emphasized. “Have a nice evening.”
She tried to open the car door; he braced his hand on it. “I was looking for you so I could tell you about the press conference.”
“Right. Like you didn’t know when we were at the chief’s office.”
Confusion furrowed the handsome features of his face into a questioning frown. “You think I knew about this?”
“You knew. The chief knew. And so did the mayor.” When he would have argued, she held up a hand. “I know how these things work. You don’t throw together a media delivery of this size without some prior planning.”
He raised both hands surrender-style. “I swear on my mother’s beef stew, which is what we’re having for dinner tonight, by the way, that I didn’t know.”
Funny. “No offense to your mother’s beef stew, but I don’t believe you.”
“Ask the chief. Whether you believe it or not, he had no idea he would be announcing this news until about forty or forty-five minutes ago. Right after we left his office.”
“Get real, Conner. I have things to do.” She jerked at the door but didn’t get it open before he, again, blocked her effort.
“The FBI is sending a profiler to help with the case. He insisted the chief get the word out to set the stage for whatever he’s got planned.”
Sarah hesitated, her hand still on the door latch. Knowing the FBI, she could see that happening. She turned back to Conner. “The feds set this in motion and had the chief read their script, is that what you’re saying?”
He nodded. “It’s the God’s truth.”
Maybe she was a fool for believing him, but the scenario, with the FBI component thrown in, was believable.
“What’s the profiler’s name?” While she fully understood that there was basically zero probability it would be him—that rotten, low-life, bloodsucking, sorry-ass bastard—some part of her still feared it would be and braced.
Quantico had profilers out the wazoo. The odds were astronomical.
It wouldn’t be him. Too big a coincidence to be a coincidence.
“Let me think.” Conner concentrated on the question a moment. “It was an odd name.”
Her breath stalled in her chest. No way. No freaking way.
Recognition dawned on Conner’s face. “Lex August. That was it.”
Her blood drained to her feet. Three years, six months, and ten days since she’d seen or spoken to Lex August, and still the sound of his name made her want to kick somebody.
The FBI knew she was here all right, and sending that bastard was an intentional, tactical move.
Hell, he probably requested the assignment. Maybe she would kick somebody.
Conner was lucky she was no longer pissed off at him.
“You know him?”
“What makes you think I know him?”
Another of those “guy” shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe the way your face went white as a sheet when I said his name. Or the way your lips—”
“I get the picture.” What the hell? There was absolutely no possibility that this was coincidence and no way she could avoid it, unless . . .
“When will he arrive?” Her first thought was to go. Get the hell out of here before that part of her past had time to catch up with her.
Cops can’t catch the devil. The girl from the cemetery flashed through Sarah’s head but was quickly trumped by the memory of the agony in Rachel Appleton’s eyes.
If Sarah left . . . who would look at this case with complete objectivity?
Who would step on toes, even those of the locals, and push to find the truth .
. . the killer—before it was too late and Alicia Appleton was dead?
Her mother had received the roses today . . . time was running out.
“He arrives tomorrow,” Conner said. “Flying into Portland tonight and driving up first thing in the morning.”
Wonder Boy, that was what they called him.
He could analyze a crime scene and whatever evidence there was and reduce the killer to twenty-five words or less in record time.
And he was always right. Except for that once, but no one knew about that.
He’d used Sarah’s theory as his own to cover his mistake.
She should have sued, but pillow talk wasn’t always admissible in court. And she didn’t want the world to know what a fool she’d been.
If Don found out that August was assigned to this case, he would definitely want her out of here.
Damn.
The gossip she’d heard from the cashier at the Rite Aid nudged its way into her troubled thoughts. “I have to go.” First stop the inn, then the church. That should really boost her popularity.
“I wanted to—”
The crunch of ice and snow distracted Conner.