Deadly Pursuit (19 page)

“Here it is.” Chuck pulled a glossy brochure out of the mound of junk mail piled in the corner of the living room. “I knew I remembered seeing this.” He examined the cover, then tossed it onto the couch where Bev was sprawled. It hit her leg and fell to the floor. She was too zoned out to notice. “Weird thing to advertise through the mail, if you ask me.”

Daryl picked up the direct mail piece. It was weird, all right. Spooky, even. But it would work very well for phase three of Operation Alison, as he and Chuck had named it during the early hours of the morning. He'd already moved on to formulating plans for the final phase, but Chuck was right. They'd started this bingo thing. They needed to send one more bingo card first, and this was a great way to do it.

“I think I'm gonna make a trip to the woods, check things out before the sun comes up. I'm starting a new cook tomorrow.” Chuck jiggled the change in his pocket and grinned. “You wanna come? It'd be like old times.”

“No. I have things to do.” He waved the brochure.

“Oh yeah. Right.”

“Hey, Bev, can I borrow your car to go mail this when I'm done?”

No response. She just kept humming some tuneless song and gyrating like she was on a dance floor, even though she was prone.

“Take it. She won't be using it for a while.” Chuck spared her another quick, disgusted look. “Mixing booze and meth. Not smart. Anyway, find a box far away from here. Don't forget to wear gloves. And don't lick the stamp.”

“Yeah. I got it covered.”

“We'll work on the finale when I get back.” Still jiggling the coins in his pocket, Chuck pushed through the back door, letting it slam behind him.

Once Chuck disappeared, Daryl retrieved another pair of latex gloves from the box he'd left next to the futon where he slept, slipped them on, and began paging through the catalogue. It didn't take him long to find the perfect image.

A quick search through the drawers in the kitchen didn't produce any scissors, so he ripped the page out. He did find a ballpoint pen, and it took him less than a minute to write his cryptic message on the page. Then he selected another bingo card from the pack on the counter, inked the skull-and-crossbones stamp, and marked off three numbers straight across. As an afterthought, he also marked off the free spot in the center, leaving one open square. He wanted the message to be crystal clear.

The next time—the final time—was bingo.

Satisfied with the results, he dug through Chuck's drawers until he found a crumpled kraft-colored envelope. Stuffing the page from the catalogue and the bingo card inside, he moistened the flap with water from the faucet. He hadn't needed Chuck to tell him not to lick it. He wasn't that dumb. In fact, he was a lot smarter than most people gave him credit for. Only an idiot would leave a trail the cops could follow. He'd rather live in this dump than end up behind bars again.

And really, the trailer wasn't bad once you got used to it. Maybe he'd hang out here for a while, after all. Do a little smurfing for Chuck until he figured out the master plan for his life. He hadn't had any trouble picking up the stuff yesterday. No reason he'd have trouble for a few weeks, as long as he kept hitting different stores.

Yeah, he might think about that. It wasn't like he had anyone waiting to welcome him with open arms. Nicole had been his best hope. But thanks to Alison Taylor, that hope had died.

Well, Miss Do-Gooder was paying a price for that. A big price.

As her scream reechoed in his mind, he smiled. That had been sweet.

But he had bigger plans than that for her. Plans he hadn't even told Chuck about. Phase four had begun jelling in his mind last night. He was still working out the details, but when it all came together, she'd pay a far worse price than finding her beloved dog dead and mutilated.

Mitch was already here.

As Alison turned down her street at 6:55 on Friday morning, she spotted his car parked in front of her house. The Accord, not his Taurus. He'd come straight from home instead of stopping at the precinct station to pick up his duty vehicle.

As she pulled into her driveway, she was glad she'd declined Jake's offer to come with her. The moral support had touched her, but she knew he had a busy schedule today. And based on snippets of conversation she'd overheard during the many calls he'd fielded this morning alone, it sounded like the U.S. Marshals Special Operations Group was about to be summoned for duty. He had enough on his plate without attending a dog's funeral.

Besides, in all honesty, she preferred to hold Mitch's hand.

By the time she got out of her car, Mitch was removing a small wooden chest from his trunk. She'd spent most of the night crying in Jake's bed while he slept on the couch, and she thought she'd used up all her tears. Yet as he carried the chest toward her, she felt her throat closing again, and her vision blurred.

When Mitch stopped in front of her, she rested her hand on the burnished walnut wood. It was a beautiful piece, and all at once she had qualms about accepting the generous gesture.

“Mitch . . . this is lovely. Are you sure your dad is okay with me using it for Bert?”

“More than okay. A woodworking friend of his gave him the pair decades ago and kiddingly told my dad he should put his treasures inside and bury them in the backyard. They stayed in our basement for years, gathering dust. But when Patsy died, Dad pulled out one of them. I remember exactly what he said. ‘A faithful, loving dog is one of life's greatest treasures. This was meant for Patsy.' I knew, once he heard about Bert, he'd want you to have the other one.”

A tear spilled out of Alison's eye, and she bit her trembling lower lip. “Please thank him for me.”

“I will. Are you ready?”

No. She'd never be ready to say good-bye to Bert. But Mitch needed to get to work, and so did she.

Without responding, she reached in her car and pressed the automatic garage door opener. “I'll get the shovel.”

He waited for her, holding the chest in his arms. Then he followed her around the garage, across the spring grass fresh with dew, to a garden just beyond the patio.

She pointed to a bare spot in the center of the stone-rimmed patch. “I'm planning to put a rosebush there. I'd like Bert to be underneath it.”

With a nod, Mitch set the chest on the green carpet of grass. He'd left his jacket in the car, and now he rolled up his sleeves. She noted he'd worn work boots too, rather than his usual dress shoes.

Moving into the center of the garden, he dug in silence while she watched, the rising sun casting a golden glow over the world. She caught the scent of peonies in the air. A bird trilled overhead. The soft breeze was warm on her face. It was a beautiful day.

Bert would have loved it.

Dropping down to one knee, she rested her hand on top of the box as she grappled with the malicious cruelty that had robbed her of her loyal little companion. She hadn't been able to make any sense of it last night. Nor had the light of day brought clarity.

Why, God?

She'd asked that question during the long, dark night too. Prayed for an answer. But none had come.

As she stroked the lid of the box, she recalled telling Mitch once that in times like this, when you didn't understand, you had to trust in the Lord. And she was trying. But it was very, very hard. Even for her, despite her strong faith.

How much harder it would be for someone like Mitch, whose faith was shaky at best, to take that leap.

As that thought flashed through her mind, he came down on one knee beside her, his hand on her shoulder as he searched her face.

“Would you like to see him first?”

She stared at him in shock, picturing Bert as he'd been last night, bloody, mangled, and . . .

“Alison . . . it's okay. He looks like you remember.”

She squinted at him, not comprehending. “What do you mean?”

He lifted one shoulder. “I learned rudimentary first aid in my SEAL days. I know how to take care of wounds. And I cleaned him up.”

Even as she processed his generous, altruistic act, fear held her back. Yes, she wanted to see Bert. But how could Mitch possibly have erased all evidence of last night's trauma?

“Trust me on this.”

She looked into his caring eyes, eyes filled with compassion and tenderness, and knew she could, indeed, trust him. With this. Or with anything.

“All right.”

He held her gaze for another moment, his own reassuring. Fortifying. Then he opened the lid on the box.

Summoning up her courage, Alison looked down—and saw the little fluff ball who'd stolen her heart at the pound with his winsome face and the endearing cock of his head, as if he was listening to everything she said. The box was lined with brown velvet, and he was on his stomach. His paws were in front of him, his head resting on top and tipped toward her, just as it had often been in real life. His fur was fluffy and clean and had obviously been brushed.

Reaching out, Alison touched the familiar soft fur, closed her eyes, and tried to process the incredible gift Mitch had given her: a final peaceful image to hold in her heart, to replace the brutal one from last night.

Alison had received many treasured gifts in her life, but none compared to this in terms of selfless generosity. She'd seen Bert last night. She knew the task Mitch had set for himself couldn't have been easy or pleasant to accomplish. Yet he'd done it for her.

Her heart melted.

Blinking back her tears, she looked up to find him watching her. “Thank you doesn't even begin to capture my gratitude.”

He touched her cheek. “I'm just sorry it came to this.”

She covered his hand with hers. “Me too.”

Once more she looked at Bert. “Good-bye, big guy.” Her quiet farewell came out choked. “Thanks for being my friend.”

Slowly she closed the lid and turned the catch.

Mitch rose first and held out a hand to her. She was glad for the strength of his touch, because it wasn't only her injured leg that was shaky.

He waited until she had her footing, then bent and picked up the chest. After settling it in the bottom of the hole, he began replacing the ground. It took less than three minutes.

Rolling down the sleeves of his shirt, he rejoined her. “I'll plant that rosebush for you too, whenever you're ready.”

“Thank you.” With one final look at the small mound of dirt, she turned away and started toward the front of the house. “We both need to get going.”

He replaced her shovel in the garage and joined her beside her car. “Will you be okay at work today?”

“Yes. There's always a lot going on, and the distraction will help.” A smudge of dirt on his shirtsleeve caught her eye, and she brushed it off. “Sorry about that.”

“I've been dirtier.”

She didn't doubt that. Navy SEALS saw tough action. As did NYPD detectives. Getting dirty was part of the job. But the messy job he'd tackled with Bert had been by choice. For her.

It blew her away.

“You know, if I was living in my house, I'd invite you to dinner Saturday.” She cast a regretful look at her small bungalow. “It's the only concrete way I can think of to say thank you for all you did last night . . . and this morning.”

“It seems to me I'm the one who owes
you
a dinner. We never did reschedule after the homicide nixed our date last Friday. In fact, I'd intended to call you yesterday and see if tomorrow would work. Then everything went south.”

Without hesitation, she reached for his hand. “If the invitation is still open, I accept.”

His eyes darkened as his lean, strong fingers enfolded hers, and a slow smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You're on. I'll call you later to work out the details.”

She managed a small smile in return. “I'll look forward to it.”

As she began to turn away, he tightened his grip. Surprised, she looked up at him—just in time to feel his warm lips cover hers in a brief, tender, toe-tingling kiss.

“I'll wait to watch you drive away.”

His breath was warm on her cheek, and she could manage no more than a single word. “Okay.”

He opened her door, and she slid in. After using the remote to close the garage door, she started the car and backed out—feeling as if
she
was on remote. The tingle of his kiss continued to linger on her lips, muddling her mind.

Once on the street, she checked on him in her rearview mirror. He was still standing in her driveway, hands in pockets. When she waved, he responded in kind.

And as she accelerated, leaving behind the new man in her life, it occurred to her that despite the sorrow of this day, there was joy too. For while she'd lost one dear friend, she'd gained another.

A man who was strong and smart and skilled but whose well of kindness and compassion ran deep.

A man perhaps destined to be far more than a friend.