The Summerland (11 page)

“
Well, it don’t matter,” said Carl, stung by his companion’s disagreement, “’Cause that money is still here. I betcha don’t know where it went, do you? I didn’t think so. The Sheriff’s got it all nice and safe and sound in his office. I know that for sure, ‘cause Stumpy told me last night. Said he’d never seen so much money and that the Sheriff is being real secretive about it, like he don’t want anybody knowing about it. He should know better. Half the damn town is talking about it now.”

Carl shook his head sadly. “And what was he thinking, bringing that woman into one of our places last night. She’s a stranger.” He continued, totally oblivious to the fact that the woman in question was standing directly behind him. “Ashton was gone for too damn long. He forgot what it was like to live in a small town. And who is this woman? Stumpy said that’s her car they found, so you know she’s mixed up in this. It just ain’t right for the Sheriff to go mixing with criminal elements.”

The other man shifted uncomfortably, “Sheriff’s been back for five years. I don’t think he changed all that much. He was always a good boy. You always think the worst.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, paling when he saw the ‘criminal element’ glaring at them with her hands on her hips. Fumbling for an excuse to leave, he mumbled something under his breath to Carl and walked away quickly.

Snorting, Arden turned away, heading for the checkout counter. What did she expect? This was a small town and she had predicted that the rumor mill would be up and running first thing this morning. It was just disconcerting to hear herself referred to in that manner. A gun runner and criminal element. She stifled a laugh. She was the most respectable person she knew. What the hell had Samantha gotten her into?

Standing in line she reviewed the conversation in her head. What was this babble about money? And then it clicked. The ‘personal effects’ and ‘circumstances’ the Sheriff had referred to the first time she’d spoken with him. Clenching her jaw tightly, she paid the checkout clerk, then double-timed it back to her room to stow the groceries. With a grim smile of anticipation, she gathered up her notes, leaving word with the front desk to accept her Fed Ex package, then set out for the Sheriff’s Department. Sheriff Bill Ashton had some explaining to do.

* * * *

When Arden returned to her room sixty minutes later the birth of a full-scale migraine was lurking directly beneath her left eyebrow. Massaging her temple, she picked up her laptop from the front desk and proceeded to her room for about twenty Motrin and some peace.

The press had found out about the money. Hell, if the town gossips had been talking about it, it just stood to reason that the media would also know. Apparently Stumpy, whoever he was, had been quite busy the night before, because cameras and microphones inundated her the minute she stepped out of her rental car.

They knew who she was. That was the most disturbing part of all. She had never even met this Stumpy person and couldn’t begin to imagine why he would give her description to the press. And now her face would be broadcast statewide by lunchtime, which was only a few minutes away.

The only good thing to come out of the morning was the fact that the press hadn’t connected Sam’s disappearance with the murdered women. They were more than happy to run two scandalous stories rather than one, and all from the relative quiet of a respectable small town.

Then again, Samantha’s connection to the dead girls was only her theory, but she knew Sam well enough to know that she never would have left money if she’d had the opportunity to run with it, pursuing feds or not. It also explained why she hadn’t come to see Arden. She had the money; she’d just needed a quick car. Why should she even go in to ask her sister for a loan or if she was doing all right, or even to say ‘to hell with you, bitch, I’m taking your car.’

Arden shook her head, then popped four Motrin. She supposed it was a fortuitous quirk of fate that she’d been unable to secure lodging in the same hotels as the media. At least here she would be safe from their prying eyes and cameras. The Turners had already assured her of that when she’d picked up her laptop. The gods had been smiling on her.

Snapping on the television, she sunk down into the comfortable armchair and waited for the worst. It wasn’t pretty. She looked harried and stressed and almost a little crazy as she battled the throng of reporters in her quest for the front doors to the Sheriff’s Department. A wall of flesh wearing the nameplate Brewster had come to her rescue, pulling her into the Sheriff’s office while holding the press at bay. Unfortunately, once she was inside no one could decide what to do with her.

The Sheriff was at the crime scene, looking over some new evidence, they said. No, they couldn’t tell her anything about the case, but she was welcome to sit and wait for Sheriff Ashton’s return if she wished.

Arden mulled it over for about thirty seconds before enlisting the aid of Deputy Brewster. While he wouldn’t tell her anything, or even confirm what she already knew, he was kind enough to offer to take her back to her accommodations. She gladly accepted, knowing full well that the members of the press were waiting for her.

She muted the television, then slumped back in the chair. This whole situation was getting too weird. She was almost ready to just take her car and head back to L.A., Samantha or no Samantha. But she wouldn’t. Her damned sense of duty and honor and family prevented her doing anything so irresponsible. So she would stick and just see what happened.

The jangling of the telephone right next to her head knocked her out of her reverie, startling her with its intensity. Wondering whom it could possibly be, she reached for the handset, wishing the quaint bed and breakfast had caller ID. Her hand hovered just above the receiver as visions of the press corps rippled across her mind. By the fourth ring she realized it was probably just her boss, Major Allen. He was the only person who knew she was at this number.

Plastering the receiver to her right ear as she massaged her left temple, she wearily stated, “Hello, Captain Jones here.”

The voice at the other end was quiet, almost breathy and totally sexless. “Hello Arden. I’m glad I caught you.” Arden continued to massage her forehead, trying to place the voice. She got nothing.

Just as she began to ask who the caller was, the voice spoke again, soft and cajoling. “I need your help, Arden. Carlos is very displeased, and we’re feeling the brunt of that temper. I need you to tell me where she is, and what did she did with our package.”

Arden bolted up, her brow wrinkled in confusion. “Hello? I think you must have the wrong number.” Then, in a flash of insight, she knew. Oh shit. Carlos was the person Sam had stolen from.

“
No Captain,” the voice turned, becoming cold and mocking. “We both know I have the right number. You looked very pretty on television today. Carlos was quite enamored of you. You look a lot like Samantha, but not so whorish. Where is she?”

Arden’s mind whirled, pulling in aimless thoughts like the funnel of a tornado. What should she say? Should she lie or tell the truth or just not answer at all? In the end the voice settled it for her. “Never mind Arden,” it sighed, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then we can talk about Carlos’ money and Samantha and how you can help me get both of them back.”

* * * *

I made a mistake. My first since I began my quest for perfection. The car. That damned car. It brought
her
here, and she shares the sister-bond with the Goddess. She is more dangerous than any of the nonbelievers. Through her blood connection to the Goddess she is my only threat. She must be silenced or made to see The Way.

Chapter Twelve

The radio squawked angrily as Ashton and Drebin navigated the treacherous, rutted road. Sighing quietly, Bill picked up the handset. “This is Unit 14. This transmission may be monitored. Come back.”

The mechanical voice of the dispatcher greeted him. “Unit 14, please return to base immediately. We have a small situation here.”

“
Dispatch, Unit 14 is at least thirty minutes out. Can’t Doug handle it? Out.”

“
Unit 14, negative. We’ll be waiting for you Sheriff.”

“
Shit. What now?” He turned to Drebin. “Hold on.”

Drebin would later tell fellow agents that it was like riding a mechanical bull strapped to the top of a roller coaster. They bounced and careened across the landscape like a pinball, but the Sheriff seemed to be in control at all times. When they finally hit the relative smoothness of the blacktop Drebin felt like each and every bone in his body had been jarred loose. Even his teeth were sore. Then the Sheriff hit his lights and began the speed run.

The twisty roads had been bad enough at the sedate pace set on their trip up the mountain. The Sheriff took the slick corners at angles that made him wish for the craggy road again. When they finally reached Mariposa and saw the swarm of reporters awaiting them, he wished he were almost anywhere but this hick town.

Even pulling around to the enclosed lot in the back of the Department didn’t help, they were in there too. Drebin shuddered as the pointing fingers of the microphones and the vacuous eyes of the cameras poked and prodded and violated them as they exited the Explorer and beat a path for the back door and relative safety. He hadn’t seen a feeding frenzy like this in a long, long time. Something new must have happened, and the press knew about it before they did.

Bill made a beeline for his office, motioning Doug Brewster over with his head. Two steps from the door Brewster intercepted him, stopping him cold. “She’s in there. The reporters know about the money. Someone, and your first three guesses don’t count, called in an anonymous tip. I don’t know what the hell happened to her, but there’s definitely something wrong. She called, asking me to come get her twenty minutes after I dropped her off. She won’t talk to anyone but you.”

Bill instantly knew without a doubt who the ‘she’ in question was, but he didn’t know the extent of her turmoil until he entered his office and saw what he least expected. Cool, calm, collected Captain Arden Jones, the witty world-traveler of the evening before, was sitting, ramrod-straight, in one of the huge old chairs he usually threw files on. She’d plopped down on six inches of manila folders and just sat there, oblivious to her own discomfort, staring through the office wall, staring into space. She’d completely shut down.

Bill didn’t even want to contemplate what had brought about this turn of events. The Arden Jones he’d met up to this point was solid and steady, a warrior in action and spirit.

Drebin bumped into him from behind. He hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting Arden Jones, but he knew what someone who’d totally checked out looked like. Both men started toward her, their mutual background of psychology kicking in instinctively. Drebin closed the door with a thud, then folded his long body into a crouch beside Bill.

He watched the way Bill handled the woman, and knew, without question, something had happened between the two, or would happen in the very near future. Ashton handled her in a way that suggested familiarity and a connection beyond the cop-victim realm.

Stroking her hand, her arm, her shoulder, Bill muttered meaningless sounds, slowly entering her consciousness without her even knowing it. She began to relax and come back into the room from wherever she’d been.

When Arden finally focused, Bill was all she saw, and the sight of him snapped the self-restraint she’d been hanging onto by her fingernails for the past hour. She threw herself into his arms, knocking him on his ass in the process. She knew she was babbling, not making any sense, but she was so damn scared and Sheriff Bill Ashton seemed to be the only real, solid, tangible thing in her life right now. Just as she had relaxed before, she began to slowly quiet herself. When she had finally calmed enough to take a breath without it ending in a hiccough, she pushed away from Ashton, visibly pulling herself together.

Taking a deep, calming breath, she lifted her anxious gaze to the two men crouched before her. The Sheriff was looking at her with the kind of quiet concern she had grown to miss since her parent’s death. That warm glance that told you someone cared. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her that way, and it sliced through what defenses she had left with the ease and precision of a scalpel.

“
Arden, this is Special Agent Frank Drebin from the FBI. He’s here helping us.” Running a hand up her arm in an unconsciously possessive stroke, he cupped her elbow. “What happened to you?”

Pushing back up onto the chair, she disengaged herself from his soothing touch. Sitting up on her own seemed very important right now. She clenched her hands together in her lap, twisting them slowly, gathering her thoughts before she spoke. “Sheriff, why don’t you tell me about the money?” Her gaze and her question, though still distraught, began to carry some of the steel Bill had become accustomed to hearing in the space of only twenty-four hours.

He flashed a quick glance at Drebin, then began covering his ass. “I can’t. It’s part of an ongoing investigation. I’d be compromising the integrity of this case if I told you more.”

Arden slowly sat up, displaying the full length of her height. Anger colored her cheeks and flashed through her eyes. Her voice was still thick with emotion, but fury rose to the top, like a pungent, curdled cream. “Integrity my ass. Some guy named Stumpy is compromising you all over town. Walk into the Prospector’s Market and see if you hear anything less. So, again I ask you Sheriff, what the hell is going on with my sister and a hundred thousand dollars and the FBI?”