Last Words (25 page)

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The cemetery had been hot as hell, the July sun unmerciful and the humidity about as high as it could get, but nothing could have kept Beck from standing next to his friend until her casket was lowered into the ground. Even after the other mourners had gone, he’d returned, and stayed by the hole in the ground until it was filled. When the dirt atop the grave had been tampered down, the men assigned to the task had nodded to him, and left him there.

The world was not a good place, it occurred to him, when a woman like Lisa could fall in love with a psychopath like Todd Singer, and be murdered for it. She’d been a great friend, a great cop.

She’d even been a great wife to that murdering bastard.

His thoughts still dark, he walked back to the station. His Jeep had been released, but today he needed to walk off some of the anger. Besides, it was too quiet back at the station, with Duncan and Lisa gone. Mia, too. Her cousin had arrived in St. Dennis within an hour of Beck’s rescuing her from the bank, and had taken her away, just like that.

Well, she was a fed. Of course they were going to want to take care of her. Her statement had been taken and faxed to him. He wouldn’t really have cause to speak with her again until Todd’s trial. Assuming there was a trial…

He took the long way back, sticking to the side streets that led close to the river and wound around behind the municipal building. It seemed that the entire town had turned out for Lisa’s funeral, but he had no desire to bump into anyone right now. He knew from past experience that those who hadn’t gathered at Captain Walt’s to rehash the service and discuss who gave the most moving memorial would be at Lola’s doing pretty much the same. He’d just as soon keep to himself for a while. He’d had enough of the press coverage—the ever-present television cameras and the print reporters—to last a lifetime.

The frenzy had started at almost the same moment that he’d brought Mia out of the basement of the bank. Someone had picked up the radio call for backup, and for the past four days, images of Mia in Beck’s shirt being led to the waiting ambulance were juxtaposed with pictures of a handcuffed Todd Singer being led to a waiting cruiser by Hal on one side and Susan on the other. The papers doled out bits and pieces of the story in screaming headlines from,
Bayside Heir Serial Killer!
to,
FBI Beauty Intended Victim! Bank Chamber of Horrors—Nine Unidentified Bodies Found in Vault!

By the time he got back to Kelly’s Point Lane, he was sweating under the collar of his shirt, which he started to unbutton as soon as he hit the front door. He waved at Garland and continued on to his office.

“You have a visitor in the conference room,” Garland told Beck as he passed.

“Don’t you want to know who it is?” Garland called after him.

“Not particularly.”

Beck thought he’d just ignore the unannounced visitor, whomever it might be, for as long as possible. He was in no mood for company.

He passed the conference room without looking through the open door, going straight to his office and removing his jacket. From there he went into the kitchen and got a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He wet a paper towel and cooled off his face. Feeling almost human again, he headed for the conference room, the bottle still in his hand.

He walked into the room half expecting another member of the press or another one of the Forbes family lawyers. There’d been several who’d called over the past few days wanting to discuss some proposed legal action against him and the town for the false arrest of Mickey Forbes.

The last person he expected to see when he stepped into the room was Mia.

She was sitting in the same place she’d been when he first saw her, that first day she’d come to St. Dennis to investigate the body that had been left in his Jeep.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.” He walked toward her, smiling broadly. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“Good, good.” He nodded. “I was wondering. I wasn’t sure how to get in touch with you. I guess I could have called the FBI…”

“Depending on when you made the call, they may or may not have had a listing for me.” She rested her arms on the table. “I’ve resigned from the Bureau.”

“Whoa.” His eyes widened. “I wouldn’t have expected that.”

“It just got to be too much.” She sat back as if studying his reaction. “I love law enforcement, it’s been my whole life. I don’t know anything else. But I can’t take the constant parade of psychopaths and serial killers and baby killers and…well, you get the idea. It’s time I made a change.”

“What will you do?” He leaned on the back of the nearest chair unable to take his eyes off her.

“Before I do anything, I have to get my head together. Deal with some issues I had tried to ignore for a while. There are some things I can’t handle on my own. I tried, but…” She shrugged.

“The situation with your brother…”

“That’s at the heart of it all.” She nodded. “I haven’t had to drink myself to sleep in over a week, but that doesn’t mean the problem is resolved. Obviously I have some dependency issues. So I’m going to be seeing someone who can help me to sort things out.”

“Do you think you’ll go back to the Bureau?”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Won’t you miss it?”

“Honestly, no.” A half-smile touched her lips. “Like I said, I love law enforcement, but I’ve had my fill of the intensity. For the past nine years, I’ve seen misery and suffering and evil that most people could not even believe exists. I’m ready to move on.”

“You ever think about being a small town cop?”

“Actually, I have.”

“I’m going to have to replace Lisa and Duncan.” His eyes darkened to speak of it aloud. “Not immediately, but soon. For a while, Hal is going to work full time, and his brother, Phil, came back to pitch in. By the end of the summer, I’ll be looking for at least one new cop. If you’re interested…”

“How many serial killers do you normally see in a year?”

“Not counting this one? None.”

“Homicides?”

“Two that I remember.”

“Rapes? Kidnappings?”

“Again, except for this year…maybe one or two rapes in a calendar year.”

“What’s the most common crime in St. Dennis?”

“Shoplifting.”

“Child abductions?”

“We had a few kids get separated from their parents at the Fourth of July fireworks. Does that count?”

“I’ll keep your offer in mind. I’ll be around for a while.”

“You will?”

“I have a room at Sinclair’s Cove for the next few weeks. In the main house, this time.”

She smiled and added, “Dan Sinclair mentioned that the last time I stayed there, your cruiser was in the parking lot when he went to bed around one in the morning and it was still there when he woke up at five.” Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t sleep in your car all night, watching out for me, did you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Actually, I slept in the chair.”

“What chair? The lawn chair?”

He nodded.

“Well, that would explain the crabby mood you were in on Tuesday morning.”

“Was I crabby?”

“Very.” She was smiling. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“And thank you for saving my life.”

“That, too.” He nodded.

“What do you think was the trigger?” She asked.

“What set Todd off?” He thought it over. “You and Annie both mentioned something in his life that changed. The only thing I know of is that Lisa was spending a lot more time on the job, a lot less at home, and becoming a lot more assertive. A lot more confident, more sure of herself. Did that carry over at home, too? Maybe. I don’t know. Todd’s the only one who can answer that, and his lawyers aren’t letting him talk.”

“Sooner or later, he will. They all do. They can’t help themselves. Smart of Hal, shooting to wound, not to kill. Shooting would have been too easy a way for Todd to die.”

“Agreed.” He nodded. “So, you think you’ll be around for a while.”

“Connor’s back and isn’t sure how long before his next assignment. He needs his space. It’s his house. Besides, he said something to me about finding a place where I feel at peace. In spite of everything that happened here, I like St. Dennis. I like the people I met here…Vanessa, Hal…you. I feel at home. I’d like to see if there’s something more for me here.”

“Besides a job?”

“A job is a good place to start.”

“How about ice cream?” He stood up.

“I love ice cream.” She pushed out of her chair.

“Soft-shelled crabs?”

“One of my favorites.”

“Which would you like first?”

“Oh, ice cream, definitely.” She reached out her hand and he took it. “Life’s short, Beck. I’m thinking dessert first…”

Turn the page for more gripping suspense from
New York Times
bestselling author
Mariah Stewart,
and a rebate for her next book

Last Breath

Coming from Ballantine Books in hardcover

October 1908
On a hill in Asia Minor

The sun had not yet risen, but the man climbing the hill was already dressed and warming his hands around a cup of strong Turkish coffee. Under his arm he held a leather folder, and when he reached the top of the hill, he sat on a rock that overlooked the camp and opened the folder. He removed a sheet of pale ivory paper and began to read over the letter he’d written only moments before.

My most darling Iliana,

I am praying this letter finds you feeling well and in good spirits, and that our sons are helping to fill the hours until my return. You will be happy to know that I will be home soon, and that in the past few weeks, we have prepared to take our leave of this wondrous place. As much as I long for the warmth and comfort of you and our home, I cannot deny the pangs of sadness I feel at having to leave behind this city where the dreams of my lifetime have been realized. If only I could describe to you the feeling that grows inside me when I stand and gaze down upon the ruins of this once-grand city, this city where potters and weavers, engineers and farmers, glassblowers and jewelers once plied their trade. There is the temple where they worshipped their goddess, Ereshkigal—I believe I have told you that the people of Shandihar had borrowed bits from other cultures, not the least of which was Mesopotamia—and the ancient marketplace where the merchants offered their wares to the caravans passing through. This place where the homes of the wealthy once stood, and now their tombs, the contents of which I cannot recount to you. Soon, however, you will see with your own eyes what your husband has spent his life in search of…

“Dr. McGowan,” a voice called from below.

“Yes, John?” Alistair McGowan turned to the sound.

“We are ready to begin loading the camels. Will you come?”

“Yes. Give me just a moment.” He finished reading the letter, then placed it in an envelope. Once back in his tent, he would seal it with wax, then hand it to the member of his team who’d leave the camp before the others to arrange for passage from Constantinople to England, and then from England to America. It would be a long and costly journey, but the expense would be more than worth it. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the look on the face of his benefactor when he saw what Alistair had found buried in the desert sands, and a thrill of anticipation surged through him from head to toe.

But that moment was months away, and so he took one long last look at the mountains in the distance and the valley below. Over the past nine years, he’d come to love and respect this desolate place, and as thrilled as he was to have found the object of his quest, his leaving was not without some regret, because he knew he’d never return.

He slapped his hands on his thighs, then stood. Time to get his caravan packed and on its way. Time to leave Shandihar with whatever secrets yet remained, and begin the long journey home.

He’d made that journey before—this was his fifth trip to these hills—but this time, unlike in the past, he’d be bringing back a king’s ransom. The find of a lifetime. Proof that the legendary city of Shandihar had indeed existed, and vindication of all the years he’d been ridiculed for chasing what others considered nothing more than a wisp of smoke. He’d not only found the city, he’d found its people, its art and its literature, its gods and its treasures. All because he’d refused to give up, refused to believe the skeptics.

It had not been easy.

As a young and promising archaeologist, Alistair McGowan was twenty-seven when he’d first petitioned his university for funding of an expedition to search for the fabled city, but had been denied time and again. Then fate, in the guise of a newly chartered university led by the forward-thinking and very wealthy Benjamin Howe, lured him with the promise of sufficient backing to send his expedition to Turkey to follow his dream. Alistair promptly set out to meet with Howe, and Benjamin Howe had been true to his word. Everything Alistair wanted or needed was supplied, not only that year, but the next, and the next, and the one following that. If Howe was becoming discouraged, he never let on, which had only fueled Alistair’s determination to find the city and its treasures, and bring them home.

And this time, he would.

The sun now risen, he finished the last of his coffee and fixed the sight in his memory, mindful of how much he would miss this place once he’d returned home. Finding Shandihar, uncovering its secrets, hidden for centuries, was, in a way, almost bittersweet. Frustrating though it had been at times, in his heart he’d loved the game. He closed his eyes and recalled the day he’d uncovered the the tombs where the treasures of the goddess had all but spilled into his hands. A heart-stopping fantasy of gold and jewels that until that moment, had existed only in his mind. He closed his eyes and relived that moment when he’d glimpsed beyond the stone wall into the interior and knew it was all real. His heart had been pounding, his eyes clouded with a murky mix of dust and tears, the tool shaking in his hand. He’d fought the urge to plow through, choosing instead to painstakingly remove each block of the outer wall, one by one, until there was room enough to pass through.

Once inside, mesmerized by the beauty of the unfathomable riches, he’d stood by patiently while all was carefully photographed. It had taken forever, but he knew that what he’d found was a treasure for the ages, and he was determined to treat the inhabitants of the tomb with the respect they deserved. Here was a find as great as that of Troy, and no one in the archaeological community would be accusing Alistair McGowan of carelessness as they had Heinrich Schliemann.

Yes, Alistair McGowan had loved the game, but the game was now over. It was time to gather the spoils.

From deep in the shadows, a figure watched the foreigner enter the sacred places that the descendants of the Holy Scribes had guarded for more than two thousand years. Below him, the camp was coming alive. Helplessly he watched as sacred artifacts were packed into wooden crates for the journey that would steal his heritage forever.

“Forgive me, Goddess. I have failed you,” he murmured into the wind.

“We have all failed.” A second figure stepped out from behind the rock. “But what can we do? We are few, and they are many. Their strength is in numbers, and we two are all that remain.”

“Then we must increase our numbers until the strength is ours. However long that takes.”

He turned to his brother and rested a hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to join the others.”

“We will be struck down for helping them to commit this abomination.”

“The desecration has been done. By accompanying them, we will know for certain the destination. And when the time comes, we will reclaim the sacred icons and return the goddess to her home.” His face hardened in the dawn light. “If it takes a millennium. The faithful will remember.”

The first man drew his cloak around him against the cool morning breeze and started down the mountain. His brother hesitated before following, whispering aloud, “The faithful will remember….”