Authors: Tami Hoag
“I was just teasing you, big guy,” she said, batting her lashes. “Don't you like to be teased? It's one of my specialties.”
Her back hit the doorjamb and Ellstrom moved in a step closer. Elizabeth fought to grab a breath through the smell of sweat, cheap liquor, and bad gas. Her heart jammed at the base of her throat and pounded there like a fist against a door.
“How about a blowjob?” he asked, his gaze glued on her mouth. He could already see those ruby-red lips wrapped around his cock. Just the thought of it had him stretching his shorts. “I'll bet that's one of your specialties too.”
She struggled to bend a grimace into a wry smile. “Ever seen
Deep Throat?
”
Her voice was husky and breathless from straining against the need to gag—on her fear, on the smell of him, on what he was suggesting. Ellstrom took it as part of her seduction, and he snickered like an overgrown teenager. He was no more than a foot away from her. His prick was at full attention, straining against the fly of his black trousers. Thinking she would rather wrap her hand around a rattlesnake, Elizabeth forced herself to reach down and touch him. She ran her fingers down the length of him, shuddering inwardly, laughing to cover her disgust.
“Why, Deputy, is this a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
Ellstrom groaned and thrust himself against her touch. Jantzen had always been the one to get everything in this town—praise, adoration, the sheriff's job, his pick of the women. That was going to change. Starting now.
He reached for his belt buckle.
Elizabeth grabbed his hand. “Not right here, sugar,” she murmured, looking up at him through her lashes. “In the office. You can sit in my chair while I make you happy.”
He was sold. She could tell by the glazed look in his eyes. Hormones and whiskey had fogged what little common sense he had. She slid her hands up his chest to his shoulders and backed him into the cramped, cluttered office, wondering if he had been the one who'd tossed the place.
“Take off your blouse,” he ordered. “I want to see your tits.”
She slanted him a smile. “In a minute, honey. What's your hurry? We've got all the time in the world.”
He snickered again, tickled at the prospect of spending the night screwing her. Jantzen would shit a brick when he found out. And he
would
find out. Boyd would make sure of it. Just as he would be sure of finding that damned book of Jarvis's. It was all going to work out for him. He deserved it.
“This is gonna be good,” he mumbled, reaching up with the intention of taking hold of one of those big full breasts. She dodged his touch, laughing her sultry, smoky laugh. Teasing him, as she said. His fingertips grazed her nipple and his cock jumped in his pants. He was going to go off like a damned rocket the minute she took him in her mouth.
“Oh, yeah,” he groaned. “This is gonna be great. I've been looking forward to this.”
“Mmm . . . me too,” Elizabeth purred. They didn't mean the same thing, but Deputy Dope didn't know that. She ran her hands over his sloping shoulders and shuffled a little closer to him. “I've been wanting to do this for days.”
“Yeah?” His eyes gleamed with the glassy light of intoxication and carnal desire. “Me too. I deserve it.”
“You sure do, sugar.”
Elizabeth smiled up at him, her prettiest, most mandazzling smile, then brought her knee up with all the force she could muster, visualizing ramming his balls all the way up to his throat. She connected with a solid blow, and Ellstrom's breath left him in a gust as he doubled over, clutching himself.
“You bitch!” he croaked. “You fucking bitch!” he sputtered, spittle spraying, his voice strangled, his face flushing burgundy. He glared at her through bulging, tear-filled eyes and tried to lunge at her, but he couldn't straighten and wouldn't let go of himself. “I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you for this!”
Elizabeth bolted out of the office, slamming the door shut on Ellstrom's tirade as she went. She ran for the back door, not wasting time on a look over her shoulder. She could hear him bellowing like a wounded moose. If he caught her before she could get help, she had little doubt but that he would indeed kill her, or make her wish that he had.
But she didn't even make it out of the building in her search for a cop. Just as she reached the door Mark Kaufman pulled it open.
“Ms. Stuart, I need you to come with me,” he said softly, his brown eyes shining with concern as he took in her wild expression and the obscenities being shouted from somewhere behind her. “Um—there's been an accident,” he stammered, his attention bouncing back and forth like a spectator's at a tennis match.
“An accident?” Elizabeth repeated, her thoughts going instantly to Trace as a rush of fear crested in her chest. “Is it my son? Is it Trace?”
“No,” Kaufman said, dragging his gaze back to her. “It's Jolynn.”
TWENTY-FOUR
T
HE
S
TILL
C
REEK
C
OMMUNITY
H
OSPITAL WAS A NEW
one-story brick building on the outskirts of town, directly across the street from the Good Shepherd Home for the Elderly. Built partly on the revenues of tourism, the waiting room had been decorated accordingly with an Amish motif. The work of a local artist depicted everyday Amish life in oils and watercolors in frames made of rough-sawn barn siding. The rockers and settees looked as though they might have come from Aaron Haurer's shop. The atmosphere was altogether too homey for a place where people waited with white knuckles and churning stomachs.
Elizabeth paced back and forth on a long braided rug, smoldering cigarette in hand, blatantly ignoring the no-smoking signs. She flicked a glance at the bitchy old cow behind the admissions desk and paused in her pacing to tap her ash into the pot of a thriving ficus. The woman glared at her, her small eyes glittering above fat cheeks, but she said nothing.
Just let her say something, Elizabeth thought, spoiling for a fight—anything to get her mind off her fears for Jolynn. She was in no mood to take shit from anybody. She was at the end of her rope. Her back was against the proverbial wall. She was ready to tear into someone, anyone. But the Minnesotans around her had retreated behind their cool reserve and their good manners, so she was forced to stew.
No wonder people went crazy in this place. Everyone repressing their feelings, holding everything in all the time. Anger and bitterness and God knew what else all boiling inside them, building like steam in a radiator until they just went off. Like Helen Jarvis. Like Garth Shafer. Like whoever had slit Jarrold Jarvis's throat and bashed in Carney Fox's head. Not even Scandinavian stoicism could hold back that kind of rage. It ripped through everything, like shrapnel tearing through steel.
The pendulum clock that hung above a shelf of painted wooden Amish figurines showed 10:30. More than an hour since Kaufman had shown up at the office. Elizabeth had left him to deal with Ellstrom and driven herself to the hospital. She had demanded to be taken to Jolynn, but Nurse Ratchet had confined her to the waiting room. So she paced and prayed and wondered what the hell had happened.
She had nearly made up her mind to go on the offensive again and storm the desk, when Doc Truman came strolling down the hall from the examination area. A small man, he nonetheless exuded an aura of confidence and paternal wisdom. His face was lean and lined with character, and he had a full head of snow-white hair which he wore combed neatly back. A stethoscope hung around his neck. The chest piece was tucked into the breast pocket of the loose white lab jacket he wore over a blue dress shirt and dark trousers. Elizabeth's eyes went immediately to the smears of blood staining the cuff of one sleeve. Her heart picked up a beat and the bottom dropped out of her stomach.
“Oh, my God, Jolynn,” she breathed, lifting a hand to her mouth. Her vision blurred with tears.
“You're Elizabeth?” the doctor asked.
She nodded, abandoning her cigarette to the ficus. “How is she? What happened? Can I see her?”
The questions tumbled out in random order, without space between them for an answer. Jolynn was the closest Elizabeth had ever come to having a sister. She was more like family than J.C. had ever been. She was her best and nearly her only friend in Still Creek. God, if she lost Jolynn . . . An almost overwhelming sense of loneliness swamped her.
Doc Truman flipped back the stainless-steel cover of a patient chart and jotted something down in ballpoint. “She's got a concussion and some nasty cuts and bruises,” he said calmly. He clicked off the pen and slipped it into his shirt pocket, glancing at Elizabeth from beneath bushy white brows. “We're keeping her overnight for observation, but all in all I'd say she's a very lucky lady.”
Relief flooded through Elizabeth and swirled around in dizzying whirlpools with fear and anger and everything else she was feeling. “What happened? Can I see her?”
“You can see her briefly. I'll let Sheriff Jantzen fill you in on the rest.”
Like an actor taking his cue, Dane appeared in the wide doorway of the hall the doctor had come down. His expression was stern. Elizabeth went to him. They didn't exchange a word of greeting. Dane turned and Elizabeth fell into step beside him. On the way to the room he curtly went over Jolynn's account of the events, from finding Jarvis's book to Rich's arrival to the harrowing scene that had been played out in Waterman's junkyard.
“He planned to kill her with the tire iron, then put her in her car and run the car off the road. Make it look like an accident,” he said flatly. “Jolynn made a run for it. She knew she couldn't get to her car, so she went winding through the maze of junk, trying to lose him. Naturally, Cannon came after her. She managed to tip a heap of scrap iron over on him.”
Elizabeth shuddered at the thought. She could imagine the raw terror, the horrible certainty of knowing someone you had once loved was going to kill you. Her imagination played out every step of the chase, every sound, every scent, the coppery taste of fear and the salt of tears.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
“I don't know. He was unconscious when they loaded him on the helicopter. I talked to someone in the trauma unit at St. Mary's a little while ago. They said it didn't look good.”
That, Elizabeth thought, all depended on your point of view. She wouldn't have felt a moment's sadness over Rich Cannon's death. He had made Jolynn's life a misery and had set out to kill her. Elizabeth's protective instincts for those close to her and her strong sense of justice would have found Rich's demise a fitting one—crushed by a heap of garbage.
Jolynn lay in the hospital bed, her complexion as white as the over-bleached sheets. Already her eyes were ringed with dark circles. A line of delicate stitches bound an angry-looking slash across her right cheek. She wore a wide gauze bandage around her forehead like a headband and both hands were wrapped like a mummy's. Yeager sat beside her on the far side of the bed, his head bent down next to hers, an expression of tenderness and concern on his face.
“Hey, kid, how you doin'?” she asked, not able to manage more than a whisper around the lump in her throat. She started to reach out to take Jolynn's hand, but remembered the bandages and curled her fingers around the bed's safety railing instead.
Jolynn looked up at her, glassy-eyed and groggy. “Stupid question,” she said weakly, trying to manage a smile despite the lidocaine that deadened her cheek. “You ought to be a reporter.”
“Naw,” Elizabeth drawled, shaking her head. “I think I might try my hand at nuclear physics though. I know just about as much about it.”
“I'm sorry about the weekly edition,” Jo mumbled. Because of her they wouldn't be able to make deadline. Why'd she have to go and get caught? Couldn't she do anything without screwing up? Rich's fault, her brain reminded her. Rich's fault. Rich had tried to— The signal shorted out and her brow knit at the confusion. Pain pounded through her skull like hammer blows.
“It's okay, sugar,” Elizabeth whispered, tightening her hands on the rail. “I reckon Still Creek can stand to miss a week of bad news.”
Guilt assailed her like an avenging angel. If it hadn't been for her determination to print the truth, to ferret out that truth on her own, this never would have happened. They should have left everything to Dane and Yeager. Who in Still Creek gave a rip about reading the truth in their stupid weekly paper anyway? All they wanted to see was the 4-H club news and the specials at the Piggly Wiggly.
“It's not your fault,” Jolynn said, accurately reading the look on Elizabeth's face. “You're not God, you know. I went out on my own. I made my own decision and I'm glad I did.”
She wasn't glad she'd nearly gotten herself killed, but she couldn't say she regretted anything else that had happened. She had taken charge of her life. She had faced down the specter of her past once and for all. She had saved herself physically and psychologically. While she had been running through the towering mountains of junk at Waterman's, not knowing whether she would escape with her life or not, she had been hit by the strangest feeling of being alive, more alive than she had been in years, and everything had fallen neatly into perspective—who she was, who she could be, what she wanted.
Yeager leaned over her, gently brushing her hair back from her face. “You ought to rest, baby,” he whispered, his dark eyes warm and bright with worry.
Jolynn smiled at him—with half of her mouth—as her lashes fluttered down and a heavy weariness pulled her toward sleep. “You're so sweet.”
He tried to swallow around the knot of emotion in his throat. “I love you,” he murmured, brushing at a lock of brown hair that had escaped the bandages to curl against her cheek.
Dane's hand settled on Elizabeth's shoulder. When she glanced back at him, he nodded toward the door and they walked out together. Their footfalls on the marble floor was the only sound they made as they wandered back down the dark hallway to the front entrance.
Outside, night had settled fully over the town and countryside. The young corn in the field next to the Good Shepherd home rattled in the breeze. Somewhere down the block a dog gave a single bark, then there was nothing—no traffic sounds, no music drifting from open windows. Peace or a facsimile of it hung in the air with the scent of geraniums and honeysuckle and newly mown grass.
Elizabeth leaned against a brick pillar and stared out at the night, wondering if there was such a thing as peace or if it was just an ideal, something longed for but always out of reach. She thought of Jolynn and the contentment on her face as Yeager had whispered that he loved her, and decided that every once in a while someone got their fingers on the brass ring.
Dane watched her, guilt riding in his gut like a stone. “I'm sorry,” he said. “You suspected Cannon from the start and I blew it off. Even after we questioned him again yesterday, I couldn't see him as a killer. I guess I'd just known him too long.”
She glanced at him sideways, her gaze sharpening as she broke out of her musings. “You think he killed Jarvis?”
“He admitted to Jolynn he killed Fox. Said that Fox had threatened to blackmail him. Since Fox didn't have the book, it stands to reason that the thing he had on Rich was the murder. He must have seen it happen.”
“And his motive for killing Jarvis was the book.”
“I just glanced at the thing, but the details are pretty damning. Jarvis was bribing key people in the state legislature to help him get road construction contracts. Rich was his bagman. If that had gotten out, Rich's political aspirations would have turned to dust.”
“But why would Jarvis leak that information?” Elizabeth asked. “The truth would have ruined him too. Besides, he would have benefited by Rich getting elected. Think of the hold he would have had.”
Dane shrugged. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leaned against the other side of the pillar, staring off into the night. “Maybe that was what did it. Maybe Rich didn't like the idea of being Jarrold's puppet. By killing him he got his freedom, his wife's inheritance. . . . We may never know for sure.”
Elizabeth shook her head, doubt stirring uneasily inside her. “I don't know . . .”
Dane's incredulous smile flashed bright in the darkness. He stepped around the pillar, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “What? You were the one who pointed a finger at Cannon in the first place. Now you don't think he did it? After he confessed to one murder and damn near committed another?”
“It's too . . .” She trailed off, then chuckled wearily to herself as she reached up and rubbed a hand back through her hair. “Neat. Just the way you like it.”
“That doesn't mean it's not true,” he said irritably.
“No, it doesn't.” She crossed her arms and hugged herself to ward off a chill that came from within. “I just think of the way Jarvis was killed, and it seems so . . . violent.”
“So does a tire iron to the skull.”
“Yes, but that's different. One good clunk and it's all over. I think of cutting someone's throat—the way it must feel to hold on to another person and drain his life away . . .” Her thoughts turned inward, throwing the image of the murder scene up on the screen of her imagination like a movie with the scene being shot from the murderer's point of view, the murderer standing behind Jarvis, dragging the blade across his throat, tearing flesh, listening to the sounds— A shudder rattled through her and she shook her head to clear the picture. “It must take an overwhelming kind of hate to do something like that.”
“Or no feeling at all,” Dane countered.
“It seems like a crime of passion—”
“Or cold-blooded evil.”
“There were other people in that book,” she reminded him. “Other people with motives.” Shafer. Ellstrom.
Elizabeth thought she should probably tell him about Ellstrom's little visit to her office, but she didn't have the energy to deal with any of it. Kaufman had hauled the deputy in. Dane would hear all about it from somebody else, somebody who wouldn't want sympathy or sweet words from him. She looked away and sighed. “You're probably right. I'm just being perverse. Anyway, it's the path of least resistance. If Rich dies, there won't even be a trial. Things will be back to normal around here before the Horse and Buggy Days parade.”
Dane scowled into the darkness, not liking what she was hinting at. “There's nothing wrong with that if it's the truth.”
“The truth,” she murmured, the word dragging down on her like an anchor. “I've had about all the truth I can stand for one day.” She pushed herself away from the pillar. “I'm going home.”
“Elizabeth.” She turned and looked at him expectantly, and whatever words he had thought might come to him didn't. Watching Yeager with Jo had stirred something in him. A need to reach out. A loneliness he had ignored for years. A weakness, he thought, crushing it out ruthlessly. “Do you want me to follow you? Make sure you get home all right?”