Authors: Nichole Christoff
“Sit still, Adam. Jamie, this is the best part.” He towed me to the middle of the restaurant. “Lie down on the floor.”
I didn’t know what he intended to do to me.
But the memory of what he’d tried to do to me the night before was still vivid.
“I have three cracked ribs,” I said. “I don’t think I can lie down.”
“All right.” He’d grown disturbingly calm. “Stand. But you’d better remain standing. If you run, I’ll shoot you. If you fall, I’ll shoot you. If you—”
“—blink, you’ll shoot me. I get it.” And I slipped my hands deep into the pockets of my borrowed coat.
With his gun on me and an eye on Barrett, Cal snatched a gasoline can from beneath a neighboring table. The cap already dangled down its side. Cal carried the can to me, upended it over my head. I cringed. But it didn’t do me any good.
Like oily acid rain, the gas soaked my hair. It ran into my collar. It saturated my coat. My skin was slick with it. My nose, eyes, and throat burned from it.
Barrett lunged for Cal. But it was too late. Cal dropped the can at my feet, shoved his handgun into my middle.
“Sit down, Adam.” Cal’s voice had turned nasty again. “Sit in the booth. Put your back to the wall. I don’t want you to miss this.”
Barrett obeyed and Cal retreated a step, but the gun didn’t waver. His hand dipped into his sport coat pocket, came out with Charlotte’s Bic. He flicked the lighter. A flame snapped to life. White in its purity, it danced above his fist.
“For once in my life,” Cal told Barrett, “I’ve got what you want. How does it feel?”
Shivering as the gasoline etched my flesh, I looked at Barrett. His face had turned to stone. It was his cop face—but it became all too human when he turned his eyes to me.
“It feels lousy,” Barrett answered.
Cal chuckled. “Well, keep watching. When Jamie’s done like dinner, you’re going to be next.”
Cal extended the lighter toward me, waved it at the hem of my gasoline-soaked coat. He still gripped the .38. But I wouldn’t let myself think about that. I needed to stop him now. Before I went up in smoke.
I stepped into the curve of his arm. Through the pocket of Elise’s jacket, I jammed the Vest Pocket into his groin and squeezed off two rounds. His mouth opened in a silent scream. His hand dropped to his side and the lighter’s flame strafed his trouser leg. The gasoline on his clothes ignited.
Cal screamed.
He stumbled away from me, through puddles of fuel. Barrett tackled him to the floor. He tried to snuff out the fire licking at Calvin—but the floor was already burning, too.
The fire leapt to the bench seats. It gobbled up posters and pictures on the walls. I shrugged out of the ruined coat, beat at Cal’s blazing legs with it.
It was no use.
Barrett jumped to his feet. He grabbed me, hauled me toward the kitchen. Shelby appeared in the doorway. She and her corporal rushed us into the alley. Marc was there, standing over Charlotte, who was handcuffed and lying on the bricks.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Barrett’s jean jacket smoldered. My limbs were aching and my side was shrieking.
But inside the Apple Blossom Café, Calvin Mead was dying.
Chapter 38
That night, despite the date on the calendar, the weather turned the corner toward winter. In the morning, spitting snow mingled with the remainder of October’s falling leaves as Fallowfield friends and neighbors gathered at a hillside cemetery to say goodbye to Kayley Miller. Leaning heavily on Elise’s arm and bundled in layers of warm and borrowed clothes, I got to be one of them.
While the minister said a few final words and the congregation prayed, my gaze wandered up the slope to settle on another grave. This one was freshly dug and freshly filled. Frost rimed the blue and white carnations that had been placed upon it. The headstone hadn’t yet been inscribed with the name of Eric Wentz, but it would be, and I hoped he’d found peace as he’d been laid to rest alongside his murdered sister, Pamela.
Charlotte Mead would face charges for killing her and for killing Eric and Vance, too. I understood she’d been reluctant to talk about how many others she and her brother had wasted in her own personal kill box. But when it came to information that could ruin Llewellyn, she apparently couldn’t talk to Marc fast enough.
Charlotte’s boyfriend, Sheriff Luke Rittenhaus, was alive this morning, if not exactly kicking. After he’d been shot, Shelby and her corporal had arrived at the café with Barrett, but being suspicious, Barrett had sent them to circle to the back of the restaurant. They’d arrived in time to find Rittenhaus bleeding out on the kitchen floor. Charlotte must’ve had some sentiment in her, because she’d begged Shelby to help him, even though she had to know his eventual testimony would be key in locking her away. But in the end, Charlotte’s feelings, Shelby’s intervention, and an ambulance saved Rittenhaus’s life—just as Mrs. Barrett’s little Vest Pocket had saved Barrett’s and mine.
Returning to Mrs. Barrett’s pretty house in the apple orchard felt like coming home. But I blamed any sappiness that threatened to overtake me on my injuries. After all, physically, I felt like I’d been run through a coffee grinder. And emotionally? I didn’t want to go there.
A hot shower, shea butter for my gasoline-irritated skin, and a home-cooked meal knocked me out. Of course, maybe the prescription-strength painkillers had something to do with it, too. But when all was said and done, I’d slept like a baby in that rose-covered chair.
When the ceremony was over and Kayley had been consigned to the ground, Elise and I and the rest of the mourners turned toward the cars parked along the drive ringing the bottom of the hill. But she and I didn’t get far. Barrett stepped up to us and offered me his arm. After a moment’s hesitation, I accepted it. And we shambled among the gravestones.
“I’m leaving,” he said, “with Shelby in a few minutes.”
Sure enough, there was her cruiser below us, waiting at the edge of the lane. She was leaning against her car, arms folded over her uniformed chest, watching Barrett from behind her shades as if he might pick this moment to make a getaway. Likewise, alongside a rented crossover that wasn’t cool enough for him, Marc Sandoval in mirrored sunglasses monitored our progress down the hill. He joined Shelby at her car, exchanged a few words with her. Or maybe they were comparing notes on ways to hog-tie Barrett.
“Any idea what will happen to you when you get to Fort Leeds?” I asked Barrett.
“None. But I deserve whatever happens to me.”
So often in recent days, that had been Rittenhaus’s rationale when we’d come across a crime victim. It had been Charlotte’s creed as well. As a security specialist, I was a firm believer in justice. And justice meant getting what you deserved. But Barrett deserved so much better than any punishment going AWOL would certainly earn. He’d come to Fallowfield to protect and defend. And to the depths of my being, I couldn’t fault him for it.
“Jamie,” he said, “I think I may’ve broken your heart.”
I wanted to lie. I wanted to deny it. But all my feelings were so close to the surface, I knew if I opened my mouth, I’d only end up confessing the truth—and telling him I loved him.
Angry with myself and the tears stinging my eyes, I turned my face away from him. But the surrounding tombstones brought me no solace. And then Barrett made everything worse.
He said, “I did what I thought was best for you.”
“Well, who the hell asked you to do that?” I snapped, stopping short on the hillside.
Passing mourners carefully stepped around us. Outbursts weren’t unusual at a funeral. But I didn’t want to sully Kayley’s with mine.
We got going again. But Barrett led me toward a rhododendron and, beside it, a mossy marble sepulchre. Shielded from passersby, we were also shielded from the driveway below.
“Shelby can’t see you,” I warned. “She might think you’ve run.”
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take,” he deadpanned, and covered my hand in the crook of his arm with his. Serious again, he said, “Jamie, I’ve hurt you.”
I pretended he meant just physically.
“A few days for my gunshot wound and a few weeks to rest my ribs,” I told him, “and I’ll be right as rain.”
He hesitated. And I saw uncertainty in his chocolate-brown eyes. “Are you…are you trying to tell me something?”
“Like what?”
He glanced over his shoulder. In Shelby’s direction. And in Marc’s.
“I don’t know. Like maybe you wish I’d drop dead.”
“Don’t say that.” I slipped my hand from his, stumbled across the lawn. I had to get away or I’d cry on the spot. “Don’t ever say that.”
Barrett stopped me before I got very far.
“It’s okay,” I told him, “that you don’t care about me the way—”
“Don’t care about you? Jamie, I love you. I think I’ve loved you from the day I was born. When Vance showed up at your house, I knew I couldn’t pull you into my past mistakes. I couldn’t pull you into my shameful—”
“You didn’t do anything to be ashamed of. It was all Calvin and Charlotte Mead. It’s on them, Adam. And anyone else who’d rather believe lies about you than the truth. In fact—”
But I didn’t get to say another word. Because Barrett captured my face in his hands. And he kissed me, slowly, softly, deeply.
I did cry then. I couldn’t help it. And when he’d wiped away my tears, I took his arm again and we set out to meet Shelby.
She was caught in a stilted conversation with Mrs. Barrett and Elise. Marc looked on, openly amused. Her corporal tried to make himself useful by clearing his throat to signal our approach.
Because it was time for Barrett to go.
He dusted a kiss on his granny’s cheek. He hugged his sister, too. But there were no words for me. No embrace. Just a lingering look that said more than anyone could ever say.
“I’ve invited Jamie to stay with me,” Mrs. Barrett assured him.
But she sniffled as she said it.
Elise’s voice was thick as she added, “I’m going to stick around, too.”
Shelby opened the patrol car’s front passenger door. At least she wasn’t going to make Barrett ride in the back. It was a mark of her respect for him, her confidence in his leadership, and I was grateful for it. He moved to slide into the seat. And that’s when Marc spoke up.
“I almost forgot,” he said. “This arrived at my motel this morning.”
He slipped a courier’s envelope from an inner pocket of his motorcycle jacket. He extracted the letter it held and unfolded it. To everyone’s surprise, he handed the letter to Barrett.
“It’s just a copy,” Marc said, “but you get the gist.”
Curiosity got the better of me and I read the page past Barrett’s shoulder. The thing had been typed up on official letterhead. And it was addressed to Barrett’s commander. The missive went on to state that Barrett’s assistance had been necessary in a highly sensitive investigative operation executed by the Drug Enforcement Agency. Unequivocally, it said, Barrett’s participation resulted directly in the arrest of suspects charged with multiple felonies and the shutdown of a supply chain moving mass quantities of heroin throughout the Northeast.
“It’s signed by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff!” I said.
“Is it?” As if he didn’t already know, Marc slid his sunglasses down his nose and leaned close to take another look.
A post commander could choose to ignore an endorsement from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. But he’d be a fool to do so. Barrett would undoubtedly face some kind of sanction for skipping out on the army, but thanks to this letter, chances were his jaunt to Fallowfield wouldn’t ruin his career.
“Thanks,” Barrett said, handing the letter back to Marc.
“Don’t mention it. Just be good to Jamie or I’ll have to do it for you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Barrett replied.
And the two men bumped fists in that weird way guys have of celebrating camaraderie.
Then Barrett was gone, in the cruiser with Shelby and her sidekick, and riding away. Elise moved off to assist her grandmother into her Volvo. In a moment, sore and slow, I’d join them, but first, I watched the vehicle carrying Barrett grow smaller in the distance.
Marc, still standing beside me, said, “So it’s you and the jarhead, huh?”
“His name’s Barrett,” I reminded him, but I couldn’t stop smiling as I did so. “And, yeah. It’s me and him.”
For Kathryn and Mary and Freda,
and surely for Hazel and Frances and Minnie as well
Acknowledgments
Sometimes, fiction is about real things. The Barrett Orchard, for instance, may not actually exist in upstate New York. But in essence, it’s part of my childhood. Likewise, the lovely ladies reflected in Miranda Barrett actually lived and breathed, and in very real ways, they poured their lives into mine. I wouldn’t be who I am today without them. And Jamie wouldn’t be herself at all.
With that said, I must thank Jennifer at The James. The James is otherwise known as the Ohio State University Comprehensive Cancer Center—Arthur G. James Cancer Hospital and Richard J. Solove Research Institute. Thanks, Jennifer, for recommending Jamie’s adventures to not only your sister and your mother, but also to all those dedicated nurses working alongside you at The James to comfort others.
Thank you, too, to David and Wayne, and Mom and Dad. Many thanks to my editor extraordinaire, Kate Miciak, editorial assistant Julia Maguire, and the entire team at Alibi. And here’s a grateful hug for my wonderful agent, Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein, and her staff at McIntosh & Otis. Last but not least, I’m sending a kiss to you, reader! Thanks for wanting to spend your time with Jamie. She deeply appreciates you—and so do I.
B
Y
N
ICHOLE
C
HRISTOFF
The Kill List
The Kill Shot
The Kill Box
About the Author
N
ICHOLE
C
HRISTOFF
is a writer, broadcaster, and military spouse. She credits James Thurber, Raymond Chandler, and Jane Austen with her taste in fiction. When she’s not reading or writing, she’s out in the woods with her ornery English pointer.