She Can Kill (She Can Series) (11 page)

“Well?” he asked.

The newspaper was a local rag. She used her cell phone light to read the address label. “Her name is Sarah Mitchell.”

A new plan formed in her mind. Perhaps Sarah Mitchell and her children could be used as leverage to control Christopher. He obviously cared about them, and that made him vulnerable.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sarah parked in the rear of the Main Street Inn. Inside, she hung up her coat and stowed her purse in a cupboard in the back room.
Nerves twisted in her belly. Even with the best babysitter in the world
on duty, leaving Em today had broken her heart. Mrs. Holloway had known Sarah and Rachel since they were born, and Sarah had complete faith in the retired schoolteacher to care for Emma.

But that didn’t make leaving her daughter the day after she’d spent the evening in the ER any easier. She checked her phone for messages. Nothing.

Jobs were hard to come by in her small hometown. She couldn’t afford to lose this one. For a minute, she almost longed for the days when she didn’t have to worry about working, when Troy’s salary paid all the bills and she could concentrate on her house and her children. But that life had come with costs as well. It had put her in her current situation, tossing together a career like the chefs on
Chopped
scrambled to make an entrée in thirty minutes out of random ingredients.

She knew her new boss had given her this job as a favor to Mike. She was a good cook, but she had no formal training. While she couldn’t let pride come between her and a steady paycheck, she was determined to do a damned good job.

Single parenthood came with issues she hadn’t anticipated. Some days she loved her job. Being a person apart from a mother was refreshing and gave her a sense of individual accomplishment. Other days, like today, she just plain hated it. There were even days when she felt guilty for enjoying her work at the inn.

But today, worrying about Em trumped all her other emotional issues.

In the hours before lunch, the kitchen was empty save for two dishwashers working at the dual commercial sinks. She removed a clipboard from its hook on the wall, where the head chef, Jacob, had left her notes on the lunch menu. After three months of watching Sarah’s every move, Jacob had finally given her autonomy over the weekday lunch service.

“Sarah, what’s wrong? You look exhausted.” Herb Duncan, the owner of the Main Street Inn and former chef, poured coffee into a
thick, black mug and handed it to her. In his gray slacks and dark-blue
sweater, Herb looked every inch the successful country gentleman.

“Thank you.” Sarah accepted it gratefully. The heat in the kitchen tended to melt makeup from her face. But this morning, she wished she’d given her dark circles a swipe of concealer. “Em hit her head yesterday. We spent the evening in the ER.”

“Is she all right?”

“Yes. She was up and eating a waffle when I left.”

Herb smiled. “Selfishly, I’m glad you’re here. I could have called Jacob in early, but he gets ornery when his schedule is thrown off. I wish I could still be of use.” Herb flexed his fingers. Arthritis kept him out of his apron.

“I know you do. I’d better get to work.”

The next few hours passed quickly. Chopping, sautéing, plating, supervising a staff of four, her job as sous chef involved much more than cooking. By two thirty, the crowd had thinned enough for her to take her afternoon break. She stripped off her apron and grabbed her coat. She slipped her cell phone in her pocket. Leaving the inn through the back door, she ignored her minivan and walked toward Main Street. Sarah preferred to spend her thirty minutes of freedom outside.

She contemplated stopping home to see Em, but quickly dis
missed that idea. Once she got home, her daughter would be attached to her body like a growth. Peeling her off to return to work would result in tears.

Crisp air swept over her face, refreshing her skin after an after
noon in the hot kitchen. She called home and checked in on Em. Mrs.
Holloway assured her that the little girl was fine. They’d baked cook
ies, and Em was currently napping on the sofa. Sarah spoke to Alex
and got a more detailed rundown of everything that had happened
since she left at nine o’clock. Sarah hung up, feeling better about her
decision to come to work. She turned her feet back toward Main Street.

Stopping at the red light in the center of town, she caught a movement o
ut of the corner of her eye. She turned around. A block behind her, a man in a brown jacket stepped into the shadow of an awning. He stared in the store window, but Sarah could still feel his gaze on her, as if he were watching her in the reflection of the glass.

She continued to walk. In front of the consignment shop, she opened the door. The sun hit the glass and turned it into a mirror.

The man was still exactly one block away, this time inspecting the window of the butcher shop. Was he really watching her or was she paranoid?

She went into the consignment store and walked around the
store once. Back outside, she glanced up and down the street, spot
ting the man in the brown jacket in the doorway of a gift shop. Con
fusion and apprehension eliminated her earlier feel-good moment.
Downtown Westbury’s meager tourist traffic was highest in sum
mer. There were a number of antique shops nestled in the few blocks
around Main Street, but strangers didn’t typically wander the streets.

He was definitely following her, but why?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

She sat in the dining room of the Main Street Inn and sipped her tea. The newspaper lay unfolded on the table in front of her. Her driver had remained in the car. While she could fake a New York accent, one word out of his mouth would attract attention.

“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter asked.

She smiled. “Just the check.”

The dining room was nearly empty. She paid her bill, left an
appropriate tip, and gathered her belongings. Scanning the walls, she
spotted a hallway and walked toward it. With a quick glance over her
shoulder, she put a hand to the door of the ladies’ toilet. Assured that
she was alone in the hallway, she bypassed the bathroom. The short
passage also led to the kitchen and some rooms beyond.

Christopher’s woman worked here. Where was she? She peered around a doorframe into the kitchen. Three white-aproned men worked, but she didn’t see Sarah Mitchell.

She stole across the rough-hewn floor and peered into a small office. Another larger room beyond held coats on hooks. She didn’t see the coat Sarah had been wearing when she entered the inn that morning.

Pulling out her phone, she sent a text to her driver. He replied in a second.
She left a few minutes ago. Didn’t take her purse.

With one ear tuned to the hallway, she rooted through the cabinets until she found Sarah’s purse. Then she slid the special device from her pocket into an exterior compartment of the handbag. It looked like a pen but was actually a voice-activated audio transmitter. She’d be able to hear everything that happened around Sarah’s purse. At most, the battery would last four or five days, but that was plenty of time.

She couldn’t make a decision about Christopher’s woman until she knew more about her. She slipped from the back room into the inn’s lobby without anyone seeing her and left through the front door.

A quick text summoned her driver. Soon she would know everything about Sarah Mitchell. Information was ammunition.

Cristan contemplated the knife pointed at his throat. In one swift movement, he twisted his shoulders, simultaneously grabbing his opponent’s wrist to push the blade away from his neck and delivering a hard palm strike to the face. A knee in the belly doubled the man in half. The wristlock, takedown, and disarm followed a second later.

“Again,” the instructor yelled.

His attacker, a police SWAT-team member, got to his feet. Cristan handed him the rubber practice knife. He repeated the technique a dozen times, and then they switched roles so his partner could practice. The weekly two-hour class ended with a knee-and-elbow strike drill that left him drenched in sweat. He shook his partner’s hand and left the gym while his classmates were engaging in the post-class discussion. The advanced class was full of members of the military and law enforcement, and Cristan didn’t want to get to know any of them too well. This was the same reason he drove nearly an hour to attend classes and an hour in the opposite direction to practice his marksmanship. There was both a gym and a gun range closer to Westbury, but he preferred to keep his private life private. The less his neighbors knew about his
hobbies
, the better.

A businessman with lethal combat skills was bound to attract attention, and if anyone knew about the cache of weapons, ammunitions, and other survival gear in his basement, interests would, indeed, be piqued. Not many real estate investors kept a go-kit containing everything from passports in multiple identities to three different types of currency.

He was still praying the video of the convenience store robbery didn’t go viral. The fewer people who saw it the better. Regardless, if Mike found out about his treasure trove of unregistered weapons, he might view the store incident with different eyes.

He stopped in the locker room on his way out. Tugging a sweatshirt over his head, he grabbed his gym bag. Then he pushed through the metal door and walked into the parking lot.

The gym occupied a warehouse-type building in the center of an industrial complex. Cold air blew across his damp skin as he
scanned the ice-crusted asphalt. A sedan parked at the opposite end of the rectangle caught his attention. The building on that end of the
complex was marked with a For Lease sign. No other cars occupied
that section of the lot, except for that lone sedan. Light reflected
off the windshield, blocking any view of the vehicle’s interior.

With a wary eye on the sedan, Cristan headed for his car. He dropped his duffel in the trunk and slid behind the wheel. Starting the engine, he slipped a hand under the seat of his car. His hand touched the handgun in the holster affixed to the underside of the seat. Next to it, a knife hilt protruded from a sheath. Satisfied his weapons were still in place, he checked his messages, taking an unobtrusive photo of the sedan and noting the license plate number.

A man couldn’t be too careful, especially one with secrets to hide.

His identification had passed the police check he knew Mike had run months ago, when Rachel was being stalked. But there were other, unofficial channels through which a curious party could obtain information for the right price. Mike’s friend Sean probably knew all about those less formal avenues. If he dug deep enough, could he find the truth?

The past could be altered, but it could not be erased.

Could this be the work of Aline Barba? After twelve long years, could she finally have found him now that he’d stayed in one place long enough?

He drove out of the lot. The sedan did not follow immediately, but he spotted it on the highway, maintaining a discreet distance that suggested a professional. Anger and apprehension sharpened his senses. His mind planned. Surveillance was the precursor to danger. Instead of driving toward Westbury, Cristan detoured.

He made three stops on the way. The sedan did not follow him into the parking lots of any of the stores, but every time he returned to the highway, it was five or six cars behind him. Whoever was behind the wheel wasn’t an amateur. A person who wasn’t always looking for danger wouldn’t have spotted the vehicle.

He contemplated his options. He was not going to lead the driver to his home. His daughter’s safety was not to be taken lightly. She had talent-show practice after school today, so he had some extra time. Cristan turned onto a country road that led to a state park where he and Lucia hiked when they desired a trail more difficult than the one that paralleled the river behind the house. The sedan dropped farther back, and he imagined the driver getting nervous as the road bisected a patch of forest. The scenery changed from open meadows and farms to rocky outcroppings and trees. A sheared-off rock wall flanked the left side of the road. The right shoulder dropped off into a rocky, tree-dotted slope. In the shadows of the forest, snow still covered the ground.

He turned onto a narrow lane that ended in a gravel parking area. There would be nowhere for the sedan to hide. If it followed him on this road, the driver would be trapped. There was only one way in and out. The sedan had not yet appeared in his rearview mirror.

Cristan parked at the end. He grabbed his coat, knife, and handgun, and sprinted for the woods. A fast-moving stream rushed next to the trail. Thin sheets of ice covered still pools. He ran up a trail to the first lookout area, a rocky ledge jutting out over the water—with an excellent view of the parking lot.

The appearance of the sedan erased any faint possibility of coincidence. On this trail, Cristan rarely ran into another human in the summer, let alone in the winter. The vehicle nosed into the lot, hesitating, as if the driver were nervous.

He should be.

Cristan glared at the vehicle making a three-point turn on the icy gravel below him. The man was planning for a quick exit. If he were smart, he would drive away and leave Cristan alone. But he wasn’t. The sedan parked facing the road that led out of the parking area. Through the car window, Cristan watched the driver make a call. Getting instructions from his boss?

He should not have stayed in this town. He should have stuck to his original plan to stay on the move. He’d gotten sloppy. That needed to change.

He drew his knife from his pocket. The cold metal settled too comfortably in his grip, if not an old friend, at least an old ally. He might not trust people, but weapons and training had been faithful his entire life. Crouching, he watched the man complete his call and pocket his phone.

Cristan waited.