A Glimpse of Evil (33 page)

“No, honey,” he said gently. “I think it’s waited long enough.”

I looked at him curiously, but he said nothing more. Instead he left me to get dressed, and I had to go looking for him once I had some clothes on. He was sitting out in his car in the driveway. “He done lost his dang mind,” I muttered, peering through the blinds.

I grabbed my purse and headed out to join him and he pulled out the moment I closed the car door. “Can we at least get some coffee on the way to wherever it is you’re taking me?” I asked. Have I mentioned that I’m not much of a morning person?

“There’s coffee where we’re headed,” he said. “And it’s not far at all.”

Dutch drove and said nothing more. I tried to get my brain to focus and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. I had no idea where we were going, and anytime I asked Dutch, he simply said, “You’ll see.”

I couldn’t do much else but stare out the window. It was still a little murky out, but the sky was quickly moving from dusky gray to a peachy purple. The sun was just starting to rise.

Dutch drove first south, then west, and I could just make out that we were heading to higher elevations as we wound our way along a curvy road. Finally we came down a street without much in the way of housing, but off to the right were some really incredible views. The road we were on rose above a valley and I could see miles into the distance. “Whoa,” I said, pointing out the window. “Look at that.”

Dutch nodded but kept his eyes on the pavement. He stopped at the very end of the road, as it dead- ended into a peninsula that had breathtaking views on all sides. Pounded into the ground was a series of stakes with little red flags.

Dutch parked and started to get out of the car. “I thought you said there’d be coffee?”

Without replying, Dutch moved to the back of the car and opened the trunk. I headed back there with him and watched curiously as he unloaded a large blanket and a picnic basket. “I came prepared,” he said, swinging an arm around my shoulders and moving me over to the center of all the stakes.

I watched then as he unfurled the blanket and coaxed me to sit next to him while he got a thermos out and two coffee mugs. I sat down next to him grinning from ear to ear. “You’re like the most romantic man on earth, you know?”

“Guilty as charged,” he said, and handed me the mug.

I took a sip and sighed contentedly and looked around. “So what is this place?”

“This?” he replied. I nodded and he said, “It’s our new home.”

My jaw dropped. “It’s
what
?”

Dutch smiled and tilted my chin with his fingers. “See right here?” he said, pointing to a series of stakes that surrounded us. “Once Dave and his brother- in-law finish building the two-story Tudor I had their architect design, this will be our little breakfast nook. It faces east so we can watch the sun come up.”

I gasped, looking in the distance as the rays just beyond our view shimmered a rich orange against the outer hills. “Ohmigod!” I whispered.

“And that,” Dutch said, pointing in the opposite direction. “That is where our living room will be. We’ll have lots of windows with blue shutters, and we’ll be able to watch the sunset when we share some ice cream.”

Tears welled in my eyes, and I had to blink them away to see where he pointed next. “Right there is where the garage goes, and there’ll be enough room above it for his and her offices.”

I could hardly breathe and a small sob escaped me. “Oh, Dutch,” I squeaked.

But my lovely man wasn’t finished with the surprises. No, he had one left, as I discovered when I realized his arm had looped around my middle and in his hand was a velvet black box. “And this is the ring that I had planned to give to you the day we arrived here in Austin, but Brice beat me to the surprise by proposing to Candice first. I decided to wait until that fanfare died down a little to make sure it was special for you, but now that we’re headed to D.C. next week, I don’t think I can wait a minute longer.” He paused for just a moment to reach over and gently open the box to reveal an enormous emerald ring. “Abigail Cooper,” he asked formally. “Love of my life, would you make me the happiest man on earth and marry me?”

I tried to say yes, I really did, but my voice had left me the moment I realized he was showing me the vision I’d had of our life together in that two-story Tudor with a kitchen that faced east, and a living room that faced west.

After several feeble attempts at a yes, I finally settled for nodding vigorously and covering him with kisses.

For the record: burying a dead body is a
lot
more work than it looks like on TV.

Also for the record, burying a dead body while wearing a clingy evening gown, heels, and in the pouring rain—darn near impossible. Of course, I had help, which could be why we eventually got our dearly departed dude six feet under. (Okay, so maybe it was more like three feet under, but who’s really measuring at that point?)

“I think that’s good,” said my oh-so-gorgeous fiancé as he patted down the mud on top of the long mound of dirt covering our dead guy.

“Thank God,” I said, holding my hands palms up to let the rain wash some of the mud off. And that’s when I realized my engagement ring had slipped off. “Son of a beast!” I gasped. (Yes, I’m still not swearing, which, at times, proves most inconvenient.)

“What?” asked my sweetie.

Before answering him, I dropped to all fours and began to feel frantically around in the mud. “My ring! I’ve lost my ring!”

My fiancé threw aside his shovel and came to squat down next to me. “When?”

Tears welled in my eyes, and my heart raced with dread. “I’m not sure,” I admitted, still scratching at the mud with my fingernails.

“Abigail,” he said gently, “if it’s in the grave, we’re not going to find it now. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“But—!” I began.

“No buts. Now come on. They’ll catch on that we’ve killed him any minute now, and they’ll be looking for us. We have to put some distance between us and them.”

I was still crying, however, and I couldn’t get over losing the most precious thing I owned. “Please, Rick?” I begged. “Just give me a minute to look. I promise if I don’t find it in—”

And that’s as far as I got before the woods all around us erupted in gunfire. Rick pulled me to him protectively. I stared into his deep brown eyes as he growled,
“Move!”

He got no further argument from me; we surged forward, and I followed right next to him as we darted through the underbrush. We ran for probably a quarter mile, and I tripped and slipped almost the entire way in my heels. Thank God I’d passed on the stilettos and gone with a modest two-inch heel. The darn things had no traction, however, and if Rick hadn’t been holding my hand, I’m sure I wouldn’t have made it that far that quick.

We stopped to catch our breath and listen for signs of a chase behind us. I did my best not to quiver in fear while he scanned the area around us. In the distance I could hear the occasional pop of a gun, but nothing seemed close, and for that, I was grateful. I eyed my sore, muddied, and blistered feet, and wished that my black pumps were ruby red and I could click them together and go back home.

“You ready to move again?” Rick asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

No,
I thought.

“I can see a structure about twenty yards that way,” he told me. “I think it might be a hunting lodge or a log cabin. We can make it there and hide out till nightfall. It’ll also give us some shelter from this rain.”

“Yippee,” I said woodenly.

Rick smiled in sympathy and took my hand. “Come on, babe. It’s not far.”

Now, you’re probably wondering what mess I’d gotten myself into this time—right? Let me take all the suspense right out of it for you. It was a doozy!

It all began three weeks prior to our mad dash through the forest, to a time when I was feeling . . . well . . . patriotic.

Of course, when you have three high- ranking members of the FBI, CIA, and armed forces telling you that your country needs you, it can be a powerfully convincing argument.

You see, six weeks ago, there was a breach to our national security that was of epic proportions. Something was stolen that was so crucial to our country’s safety that it left each and every one of us vulnerable.

What was it? you ask. Well, if I told you, I’d have to kill you.

Ha, ha, ha!
Kidding!
I’ll divulge all; but let me at least start again at the beginning, which, for me, was on a beautiful late April day in downtown Austin, when I was called to a meeting at the FBI office, where I was a civilian profiling consultant. That’s really just a fancy way of saying that, as a professional psychic, I assisted the FBI by pulling warm clues out of the ether on cases that had long since gone cold.

At this particular meeting were my sweetheart—assistant special agent in charge Dutch Rivers—his boss, Brice Harrison;
his
boss, Bill Gaston; and a lieutenant colonel with the air force, along with some steely-looking dude from the CIA.

During the course of that meeting, it became evident that something of
great
importance had been stolen off a military base and was then summarily smuggled out of the country. The good news was that the item had been traced to Canada. The bad news was that everyone agreed it would not be there for long.

Now, naturally, our government wanted its property back, and so they’d sent two CIA agents to retrieve it. Those agents’ true identities were discovered, however, and I understand that their demise was swift and most unpleasant—something I’d rather not think about, actually.

Anyway, when it became evident that the task of retrieving the article in question was more formidable than first imagined, Bill Gaston thought of me.

I debated the idea of becoming a spy for two whole minutes—something in hindsight I’m still sort of regretting—but I’d agreed, and Dutch and I had flown to Washington, D.C., the following week.

We’d been met at the airport by a lanky young agent with red hair and lots of freckles. He reminded me of Opie from
The Andy Griffith Show
. “Agent Rivers and Ms. Cooper?” he asked, spotting us immediately from the faces in the crowd surrounding the luggage carousel.

Dutch extended his hand. “Agent Spencer?”

Opie shook Dutch’s hand warmly. “Yes, sir,” he said, offering me a nice smile too. “Our car is this way.”

We trailed behind Spencer, toting our luggage to a waiting black sedan. I swear, if the FBI ever wants to blend in right, they need to add a few Priuses or something less conspicuous to their fleet.

Spencer loaded my bag into the back of the trunk, and we were on our way. “Are we going to headquarters?” Dutch inquired.

Spencer shook his head. “No, sir,” he told us. “I’ve been told to bring you to the CIA central office.”

I gulped. I grew up at the height of the cold war, so I still think of the CIA as an agency staffed with seriously scary people willing to do
anything
for the cause. But I held my nerves in check—I mean, I didn’t want to appear all fidgety and nervous on my first day of spy school. How uncool would
that
be?

We arrived at the CIA central office, and Opie handed us off to a female agent dressed in a smart black pantsuit and a crisp white shirt; she had no emotion on her face whatsoever.

She took us through security before seeing us to a large conference room, where nearly a dozen men and one woman were already seated.

The lone woman stood when we entered, and I noticed she was at the head of the oval table. “Good morning,” she said cordially. “Agent Rivers, Ms. Cooper, please come in and join us.”

The agent who’d shown us in backed out of the room and closed the door. I felt Dutch’s hand rest on my lower back as he guided me to the only two available seats left at the table. My mouth went dry as I took up my chair, but when I saw Bill Gaston sitting across from us and smiling warmly, I breathed a teensy bit easier.

It struck me then that the table was arranged somewhat by rank. The woman at the head of the table was obviously running the show, and she was flanked by two gentlemen, who I’d guess were in their midfifties; they seemed full of authority. The authority vein trickled down the table from there.

I also couldn’t help noticing that everyone appeared quite interested in me, as so many steely eyes were focused my way. I could also see a little disappointment in a few of them as they assessed me from head to toe. Not the first time I’d experienced that reaction and, likely, not the last.

“Welcome to Washington,” said the woman at the head of the table into the silence that followed our sitting down. “I’m Christine Tanner, and I’m the CIA director of intelligence here in D.C.”

I smiled and nodded to her, and Dutch did the same. And that was it for pleasantries, because Tanner promptly sat down again and clicked a button, which caused the conference room to go dark except for the projection of a slide onto a screen at the other end of the room. “Ms. Cooper, as you have cleared our security background checks, we feel it wise to educate you on the nature of the security breach we encountered three weeks ago.”

I focused on the slide, which showed an areal view of a large air force base. “This is a military outpost in southern Utah. On the morning of April sixth, during a routine flight test, one of our military drones went missing.” I heard a click, and a new slide showed the image of an unmanned drone aircraft like I’d seen on the news used in air strikes against enemy militant fighters in Iraq and Afghanistan, although this one looked much smaller in scale.

“The pilot claimed that midway through the test flight, the operating system on the drone failed, causing it to stop responding to his commands and eventually crash somewhere out in the desert.”