Find Me (39 page)

She could see the irony, yes.

"After twenty years," she redirected, "what awakened the demon?" Two decades of meticulous control and then the man who planned every detail so carefully suddenly gets sloppy? No way.

"The first temptation came in the form of that whore on West Street."

"Matilda's mother?" Sarah tensed. Was this what Matilda had been talking about?

"A few years ago she attempted to seduce me in a public place and then blackmail me." He made a disparaging sound. "It didn't work, of course." His gaze locked with Sarah's. "She has no idea how close she came to being a victim of someone besides herself."

"But you resisted," Sarah suggested.

"For the child's sake." Jerald shook his head. "In hindsight, perhaps the child would have been better off if I had acted on the impulse."

Sarah studied him a long moment. "If that was a few years ago, why kill again now? Who pissed you off this time?"

"I believe we've reached the end of constructive conversation, Sarah."

His expression closed as surely as if he'd pulled the blinds or locked a door.

"You're afraid to talk about it," she challenged. "Afraid I'll figure out the truth."

He leaned forward as far as his constraints would allow. "I know what you're afraid of, Sarah Newton."

Tension stiffened her. "How would you know anything about me?"

"I know everything about you. From your humble, gruesome childhood to your boring college days and everything in between and after. Most information about one's life, every little secret, is easily attained with the proper incentive."

Fury roared through her. "You're right," she agreed. "I do believe we've reached the end of constructive conversation."

She pushed up from her chair and started for the door.

"Don't worry, Sarah."

She paused, looked back at him. "What would I be worried about?"

"You're not a killer."

"That's right," she tossed back. "I'm not. But you are."

"Exactly my point. There's one thing a natural-born killer knows and that's another killer."

"I appreciate your vote of confidence." She reached for the door.

"You think about it often."

Enough. But some tiny little seed of doubt wouldn't let her walk away without hearing him out.

No… wait.

…
one with the misfortune of being born to parents who kill, could, in fact, become a killer simply by virtue of DNA
.

He'd said those words to her. Sarah recalled distinctly that tense conversation. And now she knew exactly what he'd been saying. "You're worried about your daughter."

The flare of surprise in his eyes told her she'd nailed his deepest, darkest fear.

"Why would I worry about Jerri Lynn?" He schooled his expression. "She's the perfect daughter. An honor student. She's never been in trouble in her life."

A triumphant smile slid across Sarah's face. Now she understood. "You're afraid she's like you."

Something dark and sinister lit his eyes then. "Perhaps you're mistaking your own fears with mine. Whether or not you will inherit your mother's penchant for killing is something
you
think about often."

He struck that nerve, unerringly. "Perhaps," she confessed. "As any offspring of a killer would."

"There are conflicting theories regarding the DNA issue, as you well know," he rebutted, unwilling for her to have the last word. "But there is one sure way to be certain of yourself."

Don't let him see you sweat. Don't even ask what he means.

She should let it go… move on. But there was more here.

The truth.

"I know you want to ask how."

She could say no, but he would recognize the lie. "Say what you have to say, Pope. I have things to do."

He smiled, believing he'd won. "Yes, of course. As I was saying, the test is simple. The next time you're in a tight spot, see where instinct guides you. If the first instinct is to kill, then you may have a problem on your hands."

"Is that why you're here," she challenged. "Because your daughter failed the test?"

Pope's jaw tightened. "I would do anything to protect my daughter, that's true."

As any parent would. That was his point. "What about your wife?" Might as well cover both possibilities.

Just when Sarah was certain she couldn't be surprised any further by the man, he did just that. Sadness settled over his face.

How could a killer feel such a broad range of genuine emotions?

"We're finished here." Pope looked away from her.

Sarah had gotten all she was going to from him.

She exited the room.

Besides, her creep meter had topped out.

"Satisfied?" August wanted to know.

"Yeah. He's all yours." Even if you don't have the right killer.

She was out of here.

If these people were too stupid to see the facts, then tough shit.

She found her coat and bag near the dispatcher's desk and headed for the rear exit.

Kale waited for her outside. Or maybe he'd been out there for his own purposes. Whatever. He was currently in her path.

"What was that all about?"

She took a breath. "That was about confirming my conclusions. Jerald Pope did not kill Valerie or Alicia."

"Did he say that?"

"No. But it's the truth. When someone else goes missing, you and your friends will figure it out. I'm out of here."

She walked past him.

"Just like that."

She hesitated. Shook her head. This was why she never got tangled up in relationships. Not since that one stupid mistake.

"I guess this thing between you and August is still there."

And there was the jealousy card. Perfect. He was a guy, what did she expect? He would rather assume she was still hung up on another guy than to believe for a second that she could simply live without him.

Sarah turned around. "You see, Conner, this is why I don't do relationships. They're messy and one person always wants it more than the other."

Those dark, dark eyes reached deep into hers, maybe deeper than anyone had gone before. "You don't want to know where this"—he gestured to her then to himself—"can go?"

She thought of how it felt to be with him, so damned intense. And of his family who had that whole Disney Channel thing going on, something she'd never had. So tempting… but what if it wasn't real?

She wasn't setting herself up for that kind of letdown.

"Good-bye, Conner. It's been… real." For the first time she meant that in the truest sense of the word. Real. But too big a gamble to dare to depend on.

He didn't try to stop her.

She was glad.

The emotions that choked off her ability to breathe would pass.

By the time she reached the inn she'd just about given up on avoiding the tears.

Damn it.

She would have gone inside but something in the backyard lured her attention there. Barton, the innkeeper, was digging… or burying something near a cluster of bushes. He patted the dirt with his shovel, chunked a little snow on top of it, and then strode off to the barn.

Strange man.

She went inside and packed her stuff. Dropped her key at the unmanned registration desk and headed for her car. She had no idea where everyone was. More importantly, she no longer cared. She was out of here.

Outside she groaned. Nightfall had awakened the fog. It had risen in full force. Great.

That wasn't stopping her.

Her suitcase was in the trunk before she remembered she had to get a receipt. Tae would raise hell if she came back, again, without a receipt.

But if there was no one in there, she couldn't get a receipt. Maybe the innkeeper was back at his post by now.

She'd almost made it to the door. Through the window she could see Barton Harvey behind the desk.

It was dark. Not to mention it was foggy as hell.

She should leave.

There was a flight at nine. She could make it.

But then she'd never know what the innkeeper had been up to. She'd recognized that he had something to hide since she'd gotten here. It was more than his dislike of her. It was probably that strange incident between him and Valerie Gerard. And definitely his weird behavior. Not to mention his wife's overprotectiveness.

What would it hurt to check it out? If the family's goldfish had croaked, she'd soon know. But if he was burying something else out there… she'd know that, too.

She would check to see what the digging was about and then she'd get her receipt and go. No big deal.

Maybe he'd found a dead rat or something and had decided to dispose of it. Or maybe he'd planted seeds. But that didn't explain him dumping snow on the spot.

Her curiosity wouldn't be put off. She made sure he was still behind his desk and she hurried around the corner of the inn. Once she stepped about ten feet from the building, the landscaping lights no longer illuminated the darkness. Even if he looked out now, he wouldn't see her. It was completely dark over in those bushes. The moon was hiding behind the clouds. She was wearing black.

Go for it.

It was probably nothing. Maybe she just wanted to get back at old Barton for being such a dick the whole time she was here. Served him right. Maybe he'd buried his stash of
Hustler
magazines.

She knelt against the rocks bordering the cluster of bushes and dug out her flashlight. She wasn't about to reach in there without looking first. After confirming the location of the recently disturbed earth and snow, she tucked her flashlight between her knees. She glanced back at the inn, noted that Harvey was still behind his desk, his back turned to the window.

Do it
. She turned on the flashlight and aimed its beam on the spot; hopefully, her body would block most of the light.

Her fingers dug into the cold soil. She had to be out of her mind to do this.

Maybe she was crazy. Most people wherever she went ended up thinking so.

It really didn't matter what kind of secrets the innkeeper had. Hell, it could be that dead rat she'd already considered. But that old familiar story instinct just wouldn't let it go. Maybe she would—

Her fingers encountered a texture different from that of the dirt. Hard. She adjusted the beam of light.

A book?

A journal.

She opened it. Shook off the page. Boldly scrawled handwriting filled page after page.

A date at the top of one page caught her eye. February tenth, twenty years ago. A diary?

That packing sound that loose snow made when compressed by a footfall whispered against her eardrums.

She froze.

Sarah heard the thwack before she felt the pain.

The blast erupted in the back of her head.

Lights burst in her retinas.

Then nothing.

7:00 P.M.

Kale wasn't letting her leave like this.

He wasn't giving up that easily.

He parked next to her car. She was still here. Anticipation wired him.

He still had a chance.

As he jogged across the parking lot another vehicle arrived. He recognized it. Mrs. Harvey. She and her kids climbed out, grocery sacks in hand.

Inside, he glanced at the reservation desk. Deserted. He bounded up the stairs. Her door was closed. He banged on it. No answer.

"Sarah!"

Still no answer. He tried the knob. Locked.

He started to bang again and a scream stopped him.

He bolted for the stairs. Took them two at a time.

The lobby was still empty.

"Dad!"

Brady's voice. Kale followed the sound through the kitchen and to the mudroom.

Barton Harvey lay on the floor, blood pooled around his head. Bags of groceries had spilled around his motionless body. Brady was on his knees next to his father. Mrs. Harvey and her daughter were holding each other, sobbing.

"What happened?" Kale dropped to the floor next to Brady and checked Mr. Harvey's carotid pulse. Faint, but there.

"I don't know." Brady shook his father. "We just found him this way."

"Call nine-one-one," Kale instructed. He started to lean down to inspect the man's wound when something registered in the corner of his eye.

Black. Bag.

Sarah's bag lay on the floor near the door to the garage.

Terror ignited in his chest. Even as Brady spoke to the operator, Kale hit the speed-dial number on his cell for the chief.

Kale swallowed back the panic. He had to reach the chief. He had to let him know this wasn't over.