Dead Giveaway (36 page)

The world had gone crazy.
Everything
was wrong. But Allie couldn't let panic and pain 165

Brenda Novak

defeat her. She had to find her father and Irene. The rest she could deal with later.

Moving to the other door, she tried to open it but found it locked. They had to be there.

She knocked softly. No response.

"Dad, it's me, Allie. Open up."

Nothing.

"Dad, listen. Joe's on his way here," she murmured as close to the panel as she could get.

"He's planning to search for his uncle's remains. If he finds your cars, he'll start looking for a lot more than that. You've got to come downstairs with me and pretend we had a meeting here."

She heard movement. Had they received her message? Were they scrambling to get dressed? She couldn't be sure. "Dad? Did you hear me? I locked the barn, which is where he plans to start, but I doubt that'll detain him for long." She hesitated. "Hello? Answer me! Joe is--"

"Not as stupid as you think," someone interrupted from behind her.

Allie's heart lodged in her throat as she turned to see the man she'd been hoping to avoid step out of a third room and flip on the light.

"How'd you know I was coming here tonight?" he asked.

Allie did her best to bluff. "Clay's behind bars, isn't he? I figured you'd take advantage of his absence."

He didn't seem completely convinced she was telling the truth, but he was too excited about having the upper hand to dwell on the mystery. "It's a good thing I'm here," he said. "This explains so much, doesn't it? Now I understand why your father never wanted to investigate the people who murdered my uncle. He was too busy getting down and dirty with Clay's mother and her big tits."

Joe shook his head. "Tsk, tsk. Poor Evelyn. How's
that
going to look? A churchgoing man like Dale. The chief of
police
, no less. Nope, can't be good."

Allie glared at him. "You're trespassing. You have no right to be here."

He raised an eyebrow. "And you do?"

"More right than you've got. At least Clay likes me."

He chuckled. "Yeah, we've all heard how much."

"How'd you get in?" she asked. There were no sounds coming from the bedroom, so she was trying to stall for time, hoping her father and Irene had managed to climb out and were right now scurrying away.

"It was easier to break a window in the basement than to bother with the door, I'll tell you that much."

"Who's here with you?"

"What makes you think I'm not alone?"

What she'd overheard. But she couldn't say that. "Joe, listen--"

Kirk pounded on the door downstairs. "Allie? Allie, are you in there?"

"That's enough," Joe said. Painfully gripping her arm, he dragged her against him as he banged the flashlight he carried in one hand on the door. "Hey, McCormick. I've got your little girl out here."

Allie tried to wriggle free, to let Kirk in, but Joe held her fast. "Are you the one who shot Clay?" she asked Joe.

Laughing, he shook his head. "Are you kidding? Assault with a deadly weapon is a crime."

"Cindy saw my gun at your house."

"Cindy's a stupid bitch. She didn't see anything."

She could hear Kirk coming in through the back. "You hate Clay enough to do just about anything."

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Brenda Novak

"I won't cry when he goes to prison for life," he muttered and hit the door again.

"McCormick! I know you're in there."

"You're letting hate twist you into a monster," she told Joe.

"And your father's a saint? Like the Montgomerys? No doubt he's trying to crawl out the window right now. But he won't get far before he runs into Roger," he said and that was when she knew Joe's brother was waiting outside, blocking her father and Irene's only escape.

"Allie?" Kirk ran up the stairs.

"You're too late," Joe said, and he was right. The shrill cry of a siren broke the silence, drawing closer and closer. Then the sound died abruptly.

"You called the police?"
Allie cried.

"In addition to a few other key individuals. Figured this could use a little documentation,"

he replied with a grin.

Kirk made him release her, but it was only a few minutes later that Officers Hendricks and Pontiff, together with Allie's mother, came hurrying up the stairs--Pontiff first, then Evelyn and a huffing and puffing Hendricks.

"What is it?" Evelyn asked when she spotted Allie. "Why was I supposed to meet you here?"

Allie made sure her expression told Joe what she thought of him. The unfeeling bastard had dragged her mother out to see this firsthand.

"Sometimes the truth hurts," he murmured carelessly in her ear.

Kirk reached out to steady her, but Allie couldn't hold back the tears. Especially as she watched Hendricks and Joe force open the door to the bedroom and turn on the light. Sure enough, her father was inside. He had his clothes on, but there was a lipstick smudge on his shirt, his face was beet red and his hair mussed.

Although Dale was trying to shield her from view, Irene was there, too, and looked even worse. Her hair, which was normally teased high, was completely flat on one side, and her mascara was running with her tears.

But the worst was yet to come. Striding into the room, Joe picked up a scrap of fabric that had been shoved under the bed. "What's this?" he said and held it up for all to see.

It was a tiny sheer teddy.

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Brenda Novak

19

A
s the sun came up, Allie sat at her kitchen table, staring into the cup of coffee that had grown cold more than an hour ago. She'd brought her mother home with her and tried to feed her--with no success. Finally, she'd given her a sedative and put her to bed in Whitney's room. She already knew she'd never forget Evelyn's gasp of pain as they both stood facing the proof of Dale's infidelity.

The images that once again entered Allie's mind threatened to make her ill. Pushing her coffee away, she squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the worst of what she'd seen and heard. But it was no good. Everything came back to her: her father's halting apology, Irene crying that Dale was the only man she'd ever loved, Joe calling them both the most degrading of names, Kirk almost punching him, the mayor showing up in the midst of the chaos. It was difficult to believe that less than a year before, Allie had been married and living in Chicago, and longing for Stillwater as if it was still the perfect haven it'd always been for her.

Maybe she and Sam hadn't had the best relationship, but her life had been far saner than it was now. She was divorced, Dale and Evelyn would probably soon follow, she'd lost her job, and her father was about to join her in the ranks of the unemployed. Beyond all that, she loved a man who was, most likely, going to prison.

God, she wanted to be with Clay....

"Home's supposed to be...safe," she muttered. She'd come back to Stillwater to recoup, rebuild. Instead, she felt as if her life had fallen apart bit by bit--and at a faster rate
after
she'd returned than before.

She wondered how her brother would take the news of what had happened last night.

Briefly, she considered calling him, but couldn't make herself go through with it. She had to come to terms with this new reality first. Actually, she wasn't sure how she'd
ever
tell Daniel that their father had been sleeping with Irene Montgomery. Finding out that Dale was having an affair was bad enough. Betrayal was never easy to accept. But cheating with
Irene Montgomery?
That created all sorts of additional complications.

If Allie had her guess, it was only a matter of time until Joe began to fight for another search of the farm, saying that her father had purposely avoided the barn when they were digging there before. As she left this morning, he was already claiming that Dale knew all about Barker and had been keeping quiet for Irene's sake.

Allie remembered her father's comment that the Montgomerys had been through enough.

Did
he know what had happened?

Covering a yawn, she got up and tried to busy herself by cleaning up--throwing out the leftover eggs she'd cooked for her mother, washing the dishes, putting them away. But she had no energy, could hardly move. Thinking about the conversation she had to have with her daughter when she picked Whitney up from Emily's in a few hours didn't help. How was she going to explain why Boppo was coming to live with them? And later in the day, Allie had a meeting with Grace. They'd arranged it yesterday. Would Clay's sister be surprised about Dale and Irene? Or did she already know about the affair? What about Madeline and Molly? And Clay? Surely Kirk had called them all by now. Except Clay, of course.

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Remembering Clay's evasive answers when she'd told him that she was afraid her father might be cheating on her mother, and his reluctance to come to the cabin after that, she guessed Clay had known all along. It bothered her that he'd heard her deepest fears and hadn't leveled with her--but not because she couldn't understand why. His silence emphasized the fact that he had other people to protect, other people who meant more to him than she did.

Of course. What they'd had was...fleeting, unreal. A one-time encounter. She knew that and yet she had a hard time really believing it. Making love with Clay had felt so powerful, so visceral and meaningful.

Suddenly claustrophic, Allie dried her wet hands and walked outside. It was a mild Sunday morning. No one on her street seemed to be up yet.

She sat in the plastic chair she'd placed on her porch and stared across the street at Jed Fowler's. She
had
to find out who shot Clay. She also had to prove that Clay wasn't guilty of murder and that her father hadn't turned a blind eye to the fact that he was.

A neighbor's cat jumped from the top of her mailbox to the ground, reminding her that she hadn't retrieved yesterday's mail. Chances were good that there'd only be a stack of bills. But, like Madeline, she was expecting her tax return. Thinking the money might help her survive until her life improved, she walked down the driveway and checked inside the box.

There was a large package jammed inside. After struggling to pull it out, she realized it hadn't come through the mail. It had no return address or postage. Just her name in big bold letters across the front.

Who'd delivered this? And when?

She checked the box again, and found a page of coupons and a few bills. Nothing else.

Instinctively, she looked around her, but whoever had brought it was long gone.

When she opened the package, she could see why.

The man the jailer led down the narrow gray hall outside Clay's cell stood several inches taller than Clay, which made him six-eight or so. Shackled and wearing handcuffs, he was on his way to the empty cage next door, but he was smiling as if his arrest and subsequent lockup didn't bother him at all.

Leaning against the bars of his own cell, Clay watched, wondering why this Goliath of a man seemed so damn happy. It couldn't be because anyone was making him feel welcome here.

The jailer handled him more roughly than he had Clay and responded curtly to every question.

"When's dinner?" the man asked. "I'm looking forward to my three squares a day, you know? It's a bitch on the outside. You gotta feed yourself."

"You'll eat when it comes," the jailer responded. The officer's disgust was obvious, but his rudeness didn't disturb the new inmate. The man laughed as the jailer clanked the door shut and stalked off. Then he turned to Clay.

"How's the food?" he asked.

"Terrible," Clay said. "Is it supposed to be good?"

The man shrugged. "Sometimes it's not bad. Beats foraging out of a garbage can."

Clay studied him in return. "Is that what you normally do?"

"Hell, no. It's just a little trick I learned."

Clay pushed away from the bars and moved closer. "Trick?"

"There's always something worse. If you think about what's worse, what you have doesn't seem so bad."

"You should go on the Positive Mental Attitude circuit," he said, flopping onto his bed.

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Brenda Novak

"Except I don't think your attitude is winning you any points with the police."

The man waved an indifferent hand. "Who cares about those assholes? Anyway, I don't want to do public speaking. I can make a lot more money robbing banks, and for that I don't have to sell tickets."

Propping his head on his hands, Clay tried to make himself comfortable. "That's what you're in for? Robbery?"

"Armed robbery. And an accidental shooting they're calling assault with a deadly weapon."

"Accidental," Clay repeated.

"That's what I said."

Tired of the square pattern on the mattress above him, Clay sized up the newcomer again.

"Isn't it hard to be a bank robber when you're so tall? You don't exactly blend into a crowd."

"Oh, maybe
that's
what's wrong," he said, smacking his forehead.

Clay couldn't help laughing. "Well, if you decide to go straight, there's always basketball."

"Not an option for me,
amigo
. I can't handle a ball to save my life. And you can blame my mother for that."

"Your
mother?
"

"Well, you can't blame my dad. No one knows who he is."

Clay thought of his own father. "Sometimes even that's a blessing."

"Maybe."

"That doesn't explain why you can't play basketball."

"When my mother decided to turn her life around and became
devout
, my life did not improve. From that point forward, she wouldn't allow me to own a ball."

Clay leaned up on one elbow. "Why not?"

"She didn't believe in sports. They're competitive," he said with another shrug. "Someone has to lose."

"It's a cruel world," Clay said.

"Exactly."

"I suppose everyone wins in a bank robbery?"

"She doesn't know about my career. She's living in a cult in Oregon and refuses to acknowledge me."