Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (15 page)

“Hey, you don’t want him.” I brandished my sandwich baggie
on high. “You want this!”

His bludgeoning arm dropped to his side. Ross teetered on
his knees.

What now? Tae Bo skills or no, the guy outweighed me by
seventy pounds or more, had at least one weapon and sported his own
night-vision goggles.

If I survived, I’d tell my friend Steve the night-vision
market looks profitable.

The guy could definitely out-see me, and the breeze would
carry the pepper spray in my pocket right back into my face. I’d given Ross my
stun gun. The defunct flashlight in my hand wasn’t much of a weapon.

Fight or flee? No choice. I had to run so the thug would follow
and let Ross be. But where? The hulking ape stood between me and the rooftop
exit. The downspout dangling from rusty rivets would never support my weight.

Shit, one choice left—not an appealing one to a person who
wants a safety harness to climb on a stepstool. If I had to choose between
spiders and heights, spiders would win fuzzy feet down.

Quit stalling. If you don’t go, he’ll kill Ross.

Shadow man stomped my way. I glanced toward the roller
coaster, calculated the distance to the vee of the nearest crisscrossed
support. No more than four feet. Maybe less. I’d jumped farther in basic
training. In sunny daytime. Without a stalker.

I tried to pocket the baggie. No dice. I’d turned my pocket
inside out when I’d yanked it free. I shoved the plastic between my teeth and
clamped down. Okay, two hands free.

While a quick prayer seemed apropos, all that came to mind
was “now I lay me down to sleep…” I settled for “Lord help me,” threw the
flashlight at the Darth Vader look-alike, and took a running leap.

Womp. My stomach hit the beams full-force. My lungs emptied
at impact. I’d almost overshot my target. My butt hung over the vee on the
Tipsy House side of the structure, my chest and arms dangled on the opposite
side. Stunned I lay bent in half like a rag doll. Move.

I hugged a section of the beam with both hands, pulled my
behind through the opening. I’m no scrawny Barbie doll, and every ounce of my
frame exerted a pull toward the too-distant earth.

Calm…down…breathe…deep.

Panic subsided as survival instincts kicked in. I wrapped my
legs around a support beam like a wrestler determined to squeeze his opponent
senseless. A desire to avoid the two-story drop provided a strong incentive.
Secure for the moment I spared a look at the Tipsy House.

The night sky outlined my bullyboy pursuer. He stood near
the edge of the roof, rocking to and fro. He seemed undecided about making the
leap. Maybe he wouldn’t follow. His arm straightened. A bright light exploded.
Splinters grazed my cheek.

I screamed, and the baggie fell. Damn.

Not my immediate worry. My problem was the bad guy’s decision
to shoot now and chase later. Thank God, the heavy beams offered some
protection. I wiggled to put as much of my flesh as possible behind solid wood.

Another gunshot pinged. A sparkler-like display bloomed
beside my head. The bullet had hit one of the metal bolts holding the roller
coaster supports together. Holy crap. My adrenaline zoomed into overdrive. I
grunted and kicked. My body channeled decades-old obstacle-course training.

I shinnied monkey-like down the rough beams and dropped to
the ground. My sides ached from breathing like an overworked bellows.

The man’s feet pounded down the Tipsy House stairs. Fee, fi,
fo, fum. What now? Maybe I could outrun the guy, but I couldn’t outrun a
bullet. I needed a weapon or a place to hide. I wanted to find the blasted
dropped baggie, too, but searching was hopeless in the inky darkness. Later—if
there was a later.

I spotted a construction dumpster, grabbed its lip and
levered myself inside. I gritted my teeth waiting for a bevy of rusty nails to
puncture my body. I settled intact. If he looked in, I was dead. He had to be
outside by now. On the prowl.

I held my breath as long as I could stand it. Then took a
shallow, measured breath. A flashlight roved the space above my head.

“Captain Ross, is that you? Are you okay?”

The security guard. Jerry? I had to warn him, even if it
gave away my location.

“Jerry, get down. There’s a nut out there with a gun. He
whacked Ross on the head. He’s close by.”

“Whoever he was, he’s gone. He snatched something off the
ground and high-tailed it toward the exit when he saw me. When I heard
gunshots, I came lickity-split.”

“Thank God,” I said.

Jerry helped me clamber out of a nest of painters’ debris. I
felt woozy and lightheaded and smelled of mineral spirits.

“Glad he ran,” I added. “He must have figured you were
armed. Let’s get Ross.”

Ross shambled out of The Tipsy House, holding a hand to the
back of his head.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I think so. But I’m going to have one heck of a knot.”

I turned to Jerry. “Could you loan me your flashlight and
stay with Ross a second? I’ll be right back.”

A quick search of the area where the baggie fell to the
ground turned up nada. I’d lost it. Dammit. At least Ross and I were alive to
fight another day.

As I returned, I heard Jerry talking into his radio phone.
“Yes, Sheriff.”

Uh-oh. I hadn’t thought ahead to cops. Nobody—Darlene,
Weaver or the general—would want me blabbing to the local constabulary about
messages from the beyond.

Jerry clipped his radio back on his belt. “Told the sheriff
we’d wait for him down by the pier where we can sit a spell,” he said.

“Not a good idea. I need to drive Ross to the emergency room
and get him checked out.”

“Sheriff Delaney won’t be happy if you leave,” Jerry said.

“He’ll understand,” I lied. “Tell him what happened. We
surprised a park intruder who thwonked Ross upside the head and took a couple
of pot shots at me before he fled on foot.” I seized Ross’s arm and gently
propelled him toward the car. “Oh, tell Delaney the guy was dressed in black
and had a husky build. I’d put him at six-three, six-four. Didn’t get a look at
his face.”

A tightly-edited version of the truth. It simply left out
the good parts—The Tipsy House, the guy’s ski mask and night goggles, the
missing sandwich baggie with its note from the grave, and the fact that the
thug had surprised us, not the reverse.

It’s hard to surprise a stalker. But I could swear no one
had followed us. How did he find us?

Jerry grumbled that we were leaving him in the lurch, but
his fondness for Ross won out. He didn’t want to be responsible for any delay
in getting Ross a medical once-over. While I squabbled with Jerry, Ross
tenderly fingered the base of his skull. He didn’t utter a word.

“Tell the sheriff we’ll call in the morning,” I added, “if
we think of anything to add.”

Ross kept his silence until I started the car and pointed it
toward Dickinson County Memorial Hospital.

“Guess I should thank you for jumping off a building to distract
my tormentor. I saw you wave something at him. Worked like a red cape with a
bull. So was it Jake’s package? Do you have it?”

I shook my head. Sheepishly, I admitted dropping the
sandwich bag in my freefall. “Jerry saw the thug pick something up before he
ran off,” I finished. “Whatever was in that baggie is gone.”

“Well that sucks.” Ross moaned. “My head feels like it’s
going to explode. Delaney will be madder than a pissed-off hornet when he finds
out what happened. And I have to live here.”

At the hospital, the ER doctor, who knew the captain well,
pronounced him fit. “Just a nasty bump on the noggin’—no need to give you a
free bunk tonight.” After eyeballing the cuts and scrapes I’d sustained
communing with life-size Tinker toys, he engaged in a little torture by iodine.

“You two play nice now,” the doc joked. We’d given him a
lame stepped-on-a-shoelace account of our injuries.

As we walked down the hospital corridor, Ross unclipped the
cell phone on his belt. “I have to phone Eunice. Let her know we’re en route.
She’s sure to be fretting.”

I grabbed his wrist. “Let me make one call first. You may
need to tell Eunice we’ll be a bit longer.”

I pawed through my purse for the card with Weaver’s cell
phone number. Ross rolled his eyes, but lent me his phone. Though I’d promised
Darlene I wouldn’t talk to Weaver until she’d retrieved Jake’s package, that
ship had sailed. Now more than ever, Darlene needed help, and I planned to get
it for her whether she liked it or not. I didn’t care if she told me to go to
hell.

The FBI agent answered with a groggy, “Hello.” Before I
finished my spiel, her voice became celery crisp. “I want to talk to you and
Darlene—now. I mean this minute. I can’t believe you did something so stupid.
Head over to Darlene’s and bring your cousin. Don’t call Darlene. We have FBI
agents on the gate. I’ll tell them to expect you. I’ll probably beat you
there.”

Ross phoned Eunice and told her we were fine but had to
attend an impromptu FBI meeting. My cousin counseled his wife not to worry—fat
chance—and promised full details once he got home. He also prepped Eunice to
fabricate a wholesome tale should May phone looking for me. I didn’t want to
wake Aunt May just to tell her not to worry. A call like that was sure to
backfire, setting off two-alarm anxiety. If my aunt did happen to discover me
missing, we reasoned she’d dial Ross’s cell or his home phone first.

Our telethon complete, we drove to the Olsen estate with
Ross keeping a lookout for any suspicious vehicles following us. Nighttime traffic
proved nonexistent. Spirit Lake’s a family resort with little in the way of
titillating wee hours entertainment. The streets tend to remain deserted until
four or five a.m. when early-rising fishermen limber up their rusty pick-ups
and rattle to the nearest piers.

Weaver waited at the gate. Her scowl communicated an extra
foul mood. She motioned to the guards, then climbed in the back seat of our
car. The gates creaked open.

Neither of the men on duty wore the spiffy Thrasos
International uniform—a loden green jacket with a gold key embroidered on the
breast pocket. “Are all the Thrasos security guards gone?” I asked.

“Darlene fired Thrasos,” Weaver answered. “When Hamilton told her she didn’t have the authority, she called the sheriff. Said she wanted
everyone off her property, including Kyle and his family, and she expected the
sheriff’s department to back her up.”

“Bet that went over well.”

Weaver’s lips curved up in a brief smile. “Five minutes
later, Sheriff Delaney got a call from Kyle. Guess Hamilton thought Jake’s son
could run interference. Kyle gave the sheriff an earful about his right to
protect his house and family from his murdering stepmother. The sheriff decided
the law was on Darlene’s side. The only entrance to the compound runs through
land owned solely by Jake. The sheriff said he figured it belonged to the widow
until he was notified otherwise.”

“So it’s a Mexican standoff?”

“Delaney told Kyle he had three options. Move to a hotel.
Head back to Omaha. Or build an access road on his slice of property. Heaven
knows there may be a road-building crew here before sun-up. Delaney also asked
the FBI for help. Said he didn’t have more men to spare and he refused to bear
the responsibility if someone else was murdered. I can justify security here,
at least until the funeral.”

Realizing my questions had sidetracked her, Weaver stared
daggers at me. “I’m almost as thrilled with you as Kyle is with his stepmother.
What the hell were you thinking? You were a colonel. Army Intelligence, my ass.
I thought you had more sense.”

“Think again,” my cousin muttered sotto voice.

It would take a while to return to Ross’s good graces. With
Weaver, it could take a century.

Weaver knocked repeatedly before Darlene ushered the three
of us in. She’d thrown a robe over silk pajamas and hadn’t bothered with
slippers. Despite her dress, she looked wide-awake and hyper. “What the hell is
going on? It’s two in the morning.”

Darlene led us to the kitchen where she set coffee mugs on
the butcher-block table. She uncorked a bottle of brandy and offered chasers
for the hot brew. “Julie’s still asleep. Does she need to be here? Lord knows
she can use some rest.”

“Let her sleep,” Weaver replied. “From the gist of Marley’s
tale, I only need to scream at you two.”

I recounted the evening’s escapades. When I explained how my
go-it-alone search-and-seizure idiocy had lost information that might have
identified the killer, Darlene’s face turned crimson.

“How could you?” she demanded.

Weaver ignored the outburst. Her scorn encompassed Darlene
as well as me. “Why didn’t one of you call when you found Jake’s note? That’s
evidence. Following Jake’s clue was my job, not yours. We may have lost our
only chance to nail the killer thanks to your paranoia.”

Weaver glared at Darlene. “The note’s disappearance sucks
you into deeper quicksand. Lord help me, but I’m inclined to believe you and
Julie are innocent. However, my boss will say the rich bitch hired someone to
steal evidence that would have incriminated her.”

“What a crock.” Darlene snorted. “Jake never would have left
a note for me if he thought Julie or I were involved.”

“True.” Weaver’s voice was ice. “That doesn’t mean he was
right. He’s dead. Could be his evidence merely pointed at your accomplice.
That’s how my boss will explain it. You arranged for the proof to vanish so the
trail wouldn’t boomerang in your direction.”

“Oh, for cripes sakes,” Darlene shouted.

“Hey lady, don’t yell at me,” Weaver countered. “If you’d
called, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Now go get that damned riddle
before it disappears. I need to authenticate it.”

When Darlene left to retrieve the paper, Weaver returned her
attention to Ross and me. “You guys unraveled the riddle at supper, right? So,
how did our mystery man know The Tipsy House was Jake’s hiding place? If he
tailed you everywhere, what made him launch a full-scale attack when he did?
His assault seems reckless unless he had reason to believe you’d retrieved what
he was after.”

The FBI agent made an excellent point.

Ross’s forehead wrinkled. “Right, how did he know? Marley
swears no one tailed us, and the mugger made no attempt to follow us into the
museum. So why did he tag along at The Tipsy House?”

Even Weaver went quiet.

I returned her stare. “A bug? Seems improbable, but I don’t
have a better explanation. Let’s say someone listened in on our dinner
conversation. If our murderer suspected Jake squirreled away evidence, he might
have put two and two together from my blatherskiting about a final riddle.”

Ross shook his head. “You’re saying someone bugged my
eighty-year-old mother’s condo? Hard to swallow. But if you’re right, why
didn’t the joker just grab the package and scamper away before we arrived? He
had a two-hour head start.”

I shook my head. “He didn’t know where to look. That’s why.
I never mentioned there was a package, let alone that it was stuck in a gutter.
Without that tidbit, he could have searched The Tipsy House for hours and come
up empty handed.”

Darlene returned with Jake’s note clutched in her hand.
“Great, I just heard the tail-end of your conversation. If someone bugged May’s
house, they’re probably listening to us right now.”

“I can assure you they’re not,” Weaver said. “Our agents did
a sweep when we took over from Thrasos.”

“Did you find bugs?” I asked.

Weaver nailed me with an exasperated look. She didn’t
answer. “We’ll check May’s house,” she said. “Don’t worry about contacting the
sheriff. I let him know we’re taking over the investigation.”

Weaver stood. Her body language signaled dismissal. I wasn’t
ready to leave. Not until a few of my questions were answered. “Have you
searched the Glaston safe room?”

“No.” The FBI agent shifted from foot to foot. “Darlene said
she didn’t know about it, and Kyle and Hamilton pleaded ignorance. Every time I
call to talk with Eric, his uncle claims the young man is sedated and sleeping.
I’ll track down the architect tomorrow. If that fails, we can do a search. I
doubt it’ll gain us anything though. If only the Glastons knew it existed, it’s
doubtful the killer ventured inside.”

“Want to find out?” I asked. “The woman who cleans house for
the Glastons gave me an idea. Should only take a few minutes to see if I’m
right.”

“What’s your hunch?” she prodded.

I shared Anna’s observation that a second-floor guestroom
had lost a passel of square footage when the Glastons installed an elevator.
“I’ll bet the safe room’s accessed directly from the elevator. That would be a
sound design, offering a quick route to safety from the first or second floor.”

Weaver yawned. “I’ll look into it tomorrow.”

“Why not now? None of us is going to sleep. We’re too wired.
Aren’t you curious?”

Weaver agreed, but put her foot down at all four of us
trekking to the Glaston house. More people meant more chance to muck-up
evidence. Ross and Darlene would wait while Weaver and I took a gander.

The outside air felt colder than forty degrees. The biting
wind had not chased the clouds away. Zero cracks in the overcast canopy, no
hint of moonlight. We stumbled along the path. The estate’s soft landscape
lighting was better suited to romance than sure footing.

Looking down at the rough stone path, we almost blundered
into a black-cloaked intruder. He’d come within five feet before Weaver
deciphered his shadow and drew her pistol. The man scurried along a feeder
footpath that crossed our main walkway.

“This is the FBI. Identify yourself—now,” Weaver challenged.

I froze, heart racing. My eyes, poorly adjusted to the
blackness, pulled few details from the specter’s image. The man loomed over six
feet. Jeez, was he wearing a cloak? I blinked. Okay, his clothing wasn’t quite
so ominous—a black slicker with a hood cinched against the rain.

The dark form straightened. “Lower your gun, you idiot, or
I’ll see you fired so fast your feeble brain swims.” I instantly recognized the
snotty tone.

“I’ll lower it once I’m sure you’re not carrying,” Weaver
barked back. “Assume the position, Mr. Hamilton. Kindly lean on the tree beside
you and don’t move a muscle.”

“Consider your actions carefully.” The silky voice stretched
out the words. “There’s nothing I’d like better than to instigate a fat civil
lawsuit. If I were you, I’d forget any hopes for a government pension. I
lunched with Director Swanson last week. Of course, you’ve probably never met
the head of your FBI.”