Latimer's Law (20 page)

When she opened the desk drawer to grab the business checkbook, it was nowhere to be found. Nor was her personal paperwork—marriage license, birth certificate—or Gary’s. These losses triggered her to look for her wedding album, and it, too, was not where it should be on the shelf near the television.

It was the last straw. There could be only one place to look for those things.

Marsh’s room.

* * *

Mort’s kibble breath woke Cade. Out of long habit he rested his hand on the dog’s head and sleepily rubbed behind Mort’s erect ears. Mort pressed his chest against the bed and snuffled to indicate he needed to go outside. While Cade lazed there, half in and half out of one of the best sleeps he’d had in ages, he let himself daydream. With a smile he remembered the night just past, a second night of lovemaking in the worn little motel. He was running out of rubbers at this rate, down to a single foil package, already waiting on the cheap veneer nightstand. Not that he was complaining—a shortage of condoms was a happy problem to have, one easily solved. The sex with Abby was hotter than it had any right to be. He’d had better sex—more athletic, more adventurous in terms of positions, more technically perfect—but it hadn’t had the erotic quality, that intensely personal link. It hadn’t felt like a punch to his gut to watch his partner tip into orgasm and writhe beneath him. He hadn’t wanted to gather the other women to him and hold them while they slept afterward. He had been overwhelmed by the honesty of Abby’s response as she looked up at him, her gaze clinging to his and sharing every nuance of emotion freely.

The problem with this new kind of sex was that he was dangerously close to calling it “making love.” What if it was only the intensity of the situation that was skewing his perception? They’d been thrown together in the oddest of circumstances, and Abby’s unhappy tale was perfectly constructed to pluck at his conscience, his sworn duty and his pity. Perhaps he should distance himself a little, not continue to plunge down the rabbit hole with abandon, but he could get used to waking up next to her and thinking of the two of them as a set.

He dreamed further, imagining Abby in his own bed, at home in Ocala. He pictured her asleep there, waking on a sunny weekend morning with a slow, sweet smile as he brought her breakfast in bed, good coffee, crisp thick bacon, more. Cade could think of a lot of things to put maple syrup on; pancakes were only the start. His body began to rouse at the thought.

His hand slid over the bed beneath the covers, seeking Abby’s body. Maybe they’d rip open that last condom and put it to good use before they went out to find some breakfast and head for Wildwood to shove that bastard Marsh out of her life. Abby’s side of the bed was rumpled but empty, the sheets cool. Cade frowned and opened his eyes. The motel room’s anonymous ceiling greeted him, popcorn texture looking gray in the early-morning light from behind the curtains.

Seeing that Cade was awake at last, Mort pushed against the bed and snuffled more urgently. Cade sighed. Dreams of another session of sexy aerobics would have to wait. He needed to give Mort a moment’s exercise. Cade swung his legs out of bed and reached for his skivvies and jeans. It was still early; he’d risk stepping out shirtless and shoeless. As he zipped, he glanced toward the bathroom and saw the door standing open a bare inch, but no sounds came from the room. His brows drew together and he strode across the room to push the door fully open.

The bathroom was empty, and Abby’s jeans were still draped over the shower door.

Where the hell had she gone?

Cade didn’t like the anxious feeling that knotted his stomach. He turned, Mort at his side, and scanned the room. Her shoes were gone, but her shirt lay over the back of one of the chairs at the tiny table. Wherever she was, she was dressed in his clothes. Something about that gave him an odd surge of relief, as if his clothing could transmit a touch between the two of them, protect her somehow.

Then he noticed the folded paper on top of the chunky old motel TV, with his name written tidily across it.

He dived for the note.

Cade,

Please don’t be angry, but I’ve taken your truck again. I’ve really borrowed it, this time. I promise I’ll be back later this morning. I just need to go home and get a few things so I can make the break we talked about. I was halfway there on my own, and now after the time we’ve spent together I think I can make it the rest of the way.

Thank you for listening and for giving me the strength to do this.

I promise I’ll be back soon, then if I can beg just one more favor from you—a ride to Gainesville so I can start over, and an address so I can send you a check for all the gas I’ve used, and other things—I’ll be on my way and you can finish your vacation in peace.

Thank you again. You don’t know what you’ve done for me, but my life is mine again at last. I don’t think I’ll ever regret my short life of crime.

Abby McMurray

“No. No. Oh, damn it, Abby. No no no. You can’t just go back. Not without me to look out for you.” Cade lunged for the door and flung it wide. The truck was really gone.

Mort pushed past him urgently and trotted to the edge of the parking lot, where he lifted his leg against some shrubbery. Cade was too agitated to call the dog back, and instead returned to the room and paced it furiously, raking his hands through his hair. How long had she been gone? Did he have a hope in hell of catching her, and if so, how? She’d left him without transportation, at a backwater motel where there wasn’t even a decent-size town to get a cab. Not to mention what a sixty-mile cab ride would cost; cash he didn’t have on him.

Cade paced more, thinking hard. Mort returned to the room and lay down on his blanket.

Cade’s gaze fell on his duffel bag, and once more he pounced. The little black book inside was just what he needed, and thirty seconds later he was punching buttons on his cell phone.

“Come on, Roy, pick up. Pick up, pick up, pick up.” He paced while the phone rang and rang and rang at the other end.

“H’lo.” Gruff, sleepy, pissed.

“How you doing, Roy?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Latimer.”

“Aw, no way, man,
no way.
”

“Yeah. Know you wish I was dead, but I’m not. But hey, Roy, remember that little favor you owe me?” Cade could feel an unpleasant grin curving his mouth, and turned so that he wouldn’t catch his demonic reflection in the mirror over the dresser. His smiles were not his best feature, not with the tug of the scar. It was a miracle Abby hadn’t been scared out of her wits by his grins over dinner the night before.

“Screw you, Latimer.”

“I love you, too, man. Listen, Roy, I need a favor. And then we’re even.”

“Even, huh?”

Cade could hear the cautious interest in Roy’s voice. “Yeah. It’s easy. I need a ride from Micanopy to a house in Wildwood.”

“What the hell you doin’ in Micanopy? You ain’t workin’ drugs in Gainesville no more.”

“Will you do it, or do I give what I know to the sheriff?”

“Aw, man, don’t be like that. I got clean. I stayed clean. I married her. We got two kids now! I done what you asked.”

“That was half of what I asked. Remember I said I’d call in that favor some day. That day’s here, Roy. I need you to get in your car and get over here—right now—and get me to Wildwood. There’s a woman who needs me there.”

“A woman. You foolin’ with me? Face like yours, and you got a woman?”

“Come on, Roy. I can’t yap with you all day. I gotta get there before she gets hurt.”

On the other end of the line, Cade could hear keys jingling, and almost sagged to the floor in relief. Roy would come. The man could drive like a bat out of hell—just what Cade needed. It felt good to know he’d been right about Roy, after all. Roy was a prince in thug’s clothing. He’d just fallen in with the wrong crowd and needed one chance—just one—to make things right, and he’d done it. Playing the sympathy card for Abby had been the right move.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it. Lemme make sure we’re both clear—I get you to this house in Wildwood, and then I’m outta there, and I don’t have you ’round my neck no more.”

“That’s right. I’m gone for good.”

“I’m on it, like I said. Tell me where you’re at, Latimer. I’ll get your sorry ass to your woman.”

Cade rushed the rest of his dressing—socks, shoes, shirttails jammed into his jeans. Belt. Then he went to his duffel again and checked his kit.

Cable ties, check. He pictured himself shackling Marsh—who in his head looked like a redneck, hypertensive slob in a filthy wife-beater undershirt with a gut that hung over his belt. It would be a pleasure to link Marsh’s hands behind his back, and maybe, for good measure, his ankles—and clip his wrists to his ankles, hog-tying the man.

Flashlight, check. He never went anywhere without it; in a pinch, it made a damned fine bludgeon.

Mace, check.

Ammo, check.

Spare clip, check.

Beretta, missing.

“Oh,
God,
Abby. Baby, no.” He rummaged a second time and did not find the gun tucked somewhere unexpected. As he lifted his head, he encountered his own face in the mirror, and did not recognize the man there. For a moment he’d forgotten about the scars; he’d been back on the job, prepping for a call. He had expected to see his uniform, belt hung with all the tools of his law enforcement trade, hat placed just so on his head.

Maybe it was best if he kept that perspective in mind. More officers were hurt or killed responding to a domestic violence call than any other kind of call. Gritting his teeth, he clipped on Mort’s leash and waited outside the motel room for Roy to arrive.

It couldn’t be soon enough. Not with Abby out there alone. God only knew what she had in mind for his Beretta, but it couldn’t be good, and it wasn’t safe. He prayed she wouldn’t be adding murder to her list of crimes. That wasn’t something Cade could overlook, no matter how brutally Marsh had treated her.

Well.

Maybe Cade could, but society could not. And Abigail McMurray was the first place they’d look if Marsh turned up shot or dead.

Chapter 13

M
arsh’s room was as neat as a pin, even though the rest of the house was a wreck. One thing Abby could say for him, at least until today when she learned how deep his obsession ran, was that he was never a problem to clean up after. She hesitated in the doorway, dark rivulets of dread threading through her guts.

What would she find here, in the place she’d never ventured, not even to dust or change the bedding, since Marsh pressed her hand to his crotch in the kitchen all those months ago? In some peculiar delicacy of sensibility, he hadn’t asked her to. It was like the sex—it was all right to masturbate himself to climax in her palm or between her breasts, yet he had never tried actual intercourse with her.

He might be ready to cross that line now, though.

She swallowed hard and clenched her teeth against the nausea as she pulled open the top dresser drawer.

Drawer after drawer yielded nothing of hers, nothing of Gary’s. She forced herself to move on to the nightstand, and again—nothing. The closet next, and except for a closed cardboard box filled with back issues of
Hustler
and
Penthouse,
still nothing.

At last there was only one place left to search. Trembling, Abby approached the bed and twitched back the bedspread. Nothing under the pillows. Nothing under the sheets. Heart pounding, she lifted the mattress—still nothing. She bent and peered under the bed, and there it was. A low-profile plastic storage box, one of the very ones she’d once kept Gary’s and her winter clothing in. Reaching for it, she caught it by a corner and pulled it out.

Inside she found what she was looking for. The checkbook and personal papers went straight into the tote bag, but she couldn’t resist opening the wedding album.

If the semen on her lingerie hadn’t convinced her of Marsh’s obsession, the album did.

Every picture of Gary had been damaged. Gary’s face was either scratched out or excised altogether. She sat hard on the floor, tears filling her eyes, a lump choking her throat. If she’d had anything left in her stomach, it would have come up, as well.

Marsh had erased his own brother.

The sob that brayed out of her hurt her throat, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of the front door slamming open against the foyer wall. Shocked to gulping silence, she scrambled to her feet, rushing to peek out Marsh’s bedroom window, hiding her body behind the wall, moving the curtain the smallest amount possible.

Marsh’s Honda sedan was parked at the curb. It looked almost prim compared with the boxy, clunky power of Cade’s old pickup. It wasn’t possible that he’d already been to Silver Springs and back. He’d known she was calling from in town, and he’d just
waited
for the trap to be well and truly sprung.

“I know you’re home, Abigail,” Marsh called from the living room. “What I don’t get is why you brought company with you when you
know
we haven’t had a chance to vacuum the house this week.”

He sounded normal. Not angry.

Of course. He thinks there’s someone else here besides me.

Abby clutched the wedding album across her breasts like a shield, and edged into the living room. She couldn’t bear to be caught in his bedroom, with only the window for a possible exit, and the looming presence of his bed and the disturbed bedclothes.

Marsh’s head whipped around. “Well, now,” he breathed. His gaze took in everything, she saw—the photo album, her too-big clothes, the terrified, half-sick look of her. “Let me guess—your friends are here to help you with whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

“That’s right.” She swallowed hard. “They’re helping me pack. I’m leaving.”

“Leaving.”

“Yes. I think it would be better if you waited outside. My friends are really angry with you.”

“Why’s that?” His head tilted alertly, and Gary’s eyes looked out of Marsh’s red, furious face.

“Because I finally told them everything.”

He smiled sweetly. “Abigail, sweetheart. Don’t tell lies. It doesn’t suit you, and it makes me upset. Where are they? Call them in here, let me clear up the situation with them. Help them understand how much I love you, how you love me, too. This is just a little misunderstanding.”

A cold dagger of fear plunged into her belly, and once again she fought down nausea, this time from the dread of his fury. His words were soft enough; emotionless because he thought there was still someone else in the house. The longer she could play that game, the better off she would be.

Marsh was between her and the front door. If she went out the back, he would easily beat her to Cade’s truck. She couldn’t escape that way, and she hadn’t finished gathering up everything she’d come for. The tote bag with the business paperwork still stood next to the desk. If only she hadn’t wasted so much time weeping over what he’d done to her wedding album, she might have been gone from here, even considering Marsh’s early return.

She swallowed down a throat full of bile. “I saw your sign on the door. About closing.”

“Who else is here, Abigail?” He took a few steps closer to her, and she sidled away, but that left him able to look down the short hallway into his room, and see the tumbled bed. His eyes grew more wary. “Who’ve you been screwing
in my bed?
”

“I—I—haven’t! Marsh—” She stopped, realizing he’d managed to put her on the defensive already.

“You have. You’re wearing his clothes, even. Look at you. Gary always knew you were a slut.”

“Stop it. I know what you’ve been doing while I was gone.” She slapped the wedding album with the flat of her palm. “Now you need to leave, while...we finish up a few things here. You can come back after we’ve left. I’ll give you until tomorrow evening to pack up your stuff and go. If you do that, there won’t be any trouble for you. You can put all this behind you, and—”

“Whore,” Marsh whispered. “I can smell the sex on you.”

“Stop trying to change the subject. You—you—just go, Marsh, before I call the sheriff.”

“There’s no one here but us, is there, Abigail?”

Abigail.
How different it sounded when it was Marsh saying her name.

He saw her involuntary glance toward his room. “I called all your friends, Abigail. Nobody knew where you’d gone. They were as surprised as I was that you didn’t come home from the store. They’ve all been helping me look for you. That’s why I know they’re not here with you now. So tell me, Abigail, before I have to beat the answer out of you, who is he? Where is he, and I want to know
right now!
”

Abby tried to gather her scattered wits. The truth was in her mouth, about to burst out of her lips if only Marsh would stop clenching and unclenching his hands, when she heard Cade’s voice in her head, saying clearly, “He didn’t call anyone. He can’t afford for them to learn the truth.”

Her chin lifted as she recognized the truth of the thought, and she put the wedding album on one of the activity tables that lined the living room walls. “I don’t have to tell you anything, Marsh, except
get. Out. Of my house.
” She reached behind her to the waistband and brought out the pistol.

* * *

“Where’s this gal’s house?” Roy’s car screamed down the off-ramp and squealed to a stop at the intersection. In the backseat, Mort had lain down out of self-preservation, and had his paws spread to brace himself. “Left or right?”

“Carson Street.” Cade looked desperately for the name on the street sign. It wasn’t Carson.

“Well, where’s that, Latimer? I don’t know this town.”

“Hell if I know.” He pointed in the general direction of the convenience store where he’d stopped to get some coffee and give Mort a little water two days ago. Abby had been on foot, therefore Carson Street couldn’t be far away. “Go right. Slow down. I gotta look around.”

“You’ve come to save your damsel in distress, and you don’t know where the hell she lives?”

“Drive, damn it! That way!”

Roy gunned the engine, then braked abruptly and pulled into the convenience store’s parking lot.

“What the hell you doing, Roy?”

“Asking directions, asshole. My wife would say if you need someone to do your thinkin’ for you, just ask!”

Cade bailed out of the car with Roy, and thirty seconds later the startled and confused store clerk had gestured wildly to the south and muttered something about two streets over.

Mort woofed as the two men got back into the car. Roy hadn’t been happy about having a German shepherd in his backseat; he’d had to take out his kids’ booster seats and stuff them in the trunk, but Cade wasn’t about to leave Mort behind at the motel, and a blue-steel stare at Roy had ended that discussion pronto.

Two rights and a left later, they were looking for the house number, but instead Cade saw his truck in a driveway, and the silver Honda parked at the curb. “Pull over,” he instructed Roy.

“What, here? This ain’t 302.”

“We don’t want to scare...her.”

“Listen here, Latimer. You swear on your life you’re not here to cause trouble?” Roy hadn’t stopped the car. He’d gone past the house and was continuing down the street. “She don’t need a restraining order against you, does she, man? What do you mean, don’t want to scare her?”

“That wife of yours has done more for you than you’ll ever know, Roy,” Cade said. “Time was when you wouldn’t have asked that.”

“That time’s past. Swear to me.”

“I swear. I’m just here to help.”

“How you gonna get back to Micanopy?”

“That’s my truck right there. I’ll drive.”

Roy cut his eyes to Cade. “You mean that gal has your truck? She ditched you at a motel and took your truck home to her place?”

“Shut up, Roy.”

Roy threw back his head and laughed while he did a three-point turn in the middle of the narrow street. “Man, you got it bad.”

“I said shut up.”

The car headed back up the street. Roy pulled to the side well back from 302 and threw the car in Park. His lean face stared intently out the front window, and he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I don’t like this, man.”

Cade was looking at the silver Honda parked in front of the house. “Neither do I. Looks like she’s not alone.”

Roy turned an astonished gaze on Cade. “And you’re just gonna walk in there. Look, man, how ’bout I just drive you back to Micanopy, you get your gear outta that motel and come on for breakfast. My wife’ll be pissed—hell, she’s already pissed I’m not there right now. You come on back with me, make her whole day. But think about this.”

Cade grinned and took his duffel in one hand, and reached for the door handle with the other. “You’re a prince, Roy. Head on out, kiss your babies for me.”

Roy grinned, but looked uneasily at the house again. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Cade opened the door. “Thanks, Roy.”

“We’re square, right?”

“Square.”

Roy held out his fist for a bump. “Luck, man. Looks like you gonna need it.”

Cade felt a grin twist his face, and bumped knuckles with Roy’s big, bony hand. He let Mort out of the back, unclipped the dog’s leash and closed the car door. With a thump to the roof, he dismissed Roy, that prince of men, and waited till Roy’s car was out of sight around the corner before he and Mort crossed the street in the early-morning sunlight. They stayed well out of sight of 302. Mort lifted his leg once and briefly at the hydrant in the middle of the block, then came to heel.

Cade tried to walk nonchalantly, as though he belonged in this neighborhood of tidy houses and lawns. His eyes were constantly moving, looking for signs of Abby, signs of Marsh. Judging from the careless angle of the Honda sedan to the curb, he thought maybe Marsh had parked in a hurry.

Had Abby managed to lure Marsh out of the house while she was going to be there? Had he come back unexpectedly, or what? Cade paused at his truck and looked inside. The back had what looked like computer equipment wrapped in bright crocheted afghans, and in the front seat, the glove compartment gaped open. He opened the driver’s-side door as silently as possible and, keeping one eye on the house, pawed through the glove box. Nothing seemed to be missing, not even the flashlight he kept there, but he thought he knew why it was open.

It was where she’d put his gun while she drove from Micanopy to Wildwood, wasn’t it?

A moment later, his thoughts and his worst fears were confirmed when he heard the Beretta bark inside the house, a woman’s scream and a second shot followed by the most awful silence he had ever heard. His bowels turned to liquid, but he wasted no more time on thought. He sprinted for the front door.