Evidence of Mercy (17 page)

After a few minutes, he came out. “All done. You get some sleep now, and I'll be right out there in my car. No one's gonna get past me, so just relax. And tomorrow, I'll take you to the doctor to get checked out, just to make sure you didn't hurt yourself getting out of the house.”

“I'm fine,” she assured him, “but I need to go by the hospital anyway. I need to visit Jake.”

“Then you can do both.” He picked up the cellular phone he'd made her bring in from her car. “Now since you don't have a phone hooked up here, use this if you need to call anyone. I've got one in my car, too, and I've punched my number in here already. If you need me, all you have to do is punch the memory button and the number 1.”

“Okay,” she said, taking the phone. “Thanks.”

He looked reluctant to leave her, and she knew it was because she looked so fragile. Lifting her chin and trying to look a little tougher, she said, “You don't have to worry about me, Larry. I'm really fine.”

He sat down across from her, fixing his soft, green eyes on her. “You know, Lynda, you've survived two really narrow brushes with death in the last few days. You've seen two pretty obvious miracles, so maybe we'll get a couple more to help you out.”

Lynda sighed. “I'm starting to wonder.”

“About what?”

She swallowed, knowing that the thoughts raging through her mind bordered on blasphemy. “I just . . . sometimes wonder if God's really working in this. I mean . . . it's just all so bizarre. Why is he letting this person do these things to me? Is he trying to teach me something, or is he just turning his head, or is it Satan?”

“I personally don't like to attribute a whole lot to Satan,” Larry said. “I believe God is in control. And he's working on this. I can tell.”

She got up, trying not to cry, and turned her back to him. “Then why doesn't he just strike this person dead and keep him from terrorizing me anymore?”

“Because God doesn't work that way,” Larry said. “If he did, Tony and I would be out of a job.”

Lynda tried to laugh, but it didn't come easily. Taking a deep breath, she turned back around. “Thank you for watching over me, Larry. I feel better knowing you're out there.”

“No problem,” he said, getting up. “Call if you need me.”

Lynda could only nod mutely as he went out the door and locked her in.

A
cross town, in a hotel room that was nicer—because Lynda had insisted on it—than the cheap motel Paige had stayed in just days before, Paige lay next to her sleeping daughter and stared up at the ceiling.

She heard the elevator ring, and her stomach tightened as she listened to the doors open and the footsteps in the hallway and then a door opening halfway down the hall. Relieved, she let out her breath.

Too many noises, she thought. Too many strange people around her. Too many reasons to be afraid.

She got up, went to the window, and peeked out between the crack in the curtains. Down in the parking lot, a trucker with a cigarette in his mouth walked around his eighteen wheeler, a huge rig that took up the whole back edge of the lot.

Everyone was suspect. Anyone could have set that fire. Anyone could have almost killed her and Lynda and Brianna tonight.

It was ironic that she had been staying with Lynda only to get out of danger in the first place.

Helpless, she dropped down onto the bed and closed her eyes against the tears assaulting her. How was she ever going to find peace in her life again? Would she spend the rest of her life running with Brianna, relying on the kindness of others? Even if she proved that Keith's allegations about her being an unfit mother were a lie and was allowed to keep custody of Brianna, wouldn't she still have to fear him for the rest of her life? Wouldn't he be able to track her down wherever she went?

Seeking comfort, she mouthed a clichéd prayer that she feared fell on deaf ears. “God, if you're listening—please help us.”

Brianna jerked, and her face twisted in her sleep. As she muttered something incoherent, Paige began stroking her daughter's forehead. Was she dreaming about fire? Or about her father? Or was it some new nightmare, the next one, that her little mind was working through?

“It isn't fair,” Paige whispered, not certain if she still addressed God or the black space around her. “She's too little to fear for her life. She's just a baby.”

Brianna rolled over, found her mother, and snuggled in next to her.

And as Paige held her closely, that powerful maternal love that could fix boo-boos and scare away monsters washed over her, and she knew that whatever happened—whatever she had to do—she would protect her daughter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

S
till flat on his back, Jake stared mindlessly at the television screen as Harry Smith interviewed someone in Washington about a bill being debated in the Senate. It didn't affect him, he thought, touching the bandage on his eye that had been changed this morning. Nothing affected him any more—he didn't have a job or a home or a life. He might as well not even exist for all the hope he had.

CBS broke for a commercial. After a detergent ad, the local news came on for an update. He reached for the remote control to change the channel as the anchor told about a fire in the exclusive Willow Heights area last night.

“
Police suspect arson. The home belonged to local attorney Lynda Barrett, who—”

Jake dropped the remote control and tried to raise himself up. Dizziness assaulted him, and he dropped back down, straining to listen.

“
—was involved in the plane crash at St. Clair Airport earlier this week. Sources told Channel 16 News that there is evidence that the crash was the result of foul play, and that this may have been a second attempt on Barrett's life. Barrett and two houseguests escaped the fire, but we have no word yet on whether they sustained any injuries.”

Amazed, Jake groped for the buzzer to ring for his nurse. In moments, she was in the doorway. “What is it, Jake?

“Do you have Lynda's number?” he asked.

“No, but I can look it up.”

“You can't look it up!” he threw back. “Her house burnt down last night! Do you have her number at work?”

“Her house burnt down? Are you sure?”

“I saw it on the news,” he said, breathing hard. “Was she—was she brought in here last night?”

“Well . . . I don't know. I can go check.” She walked further into the room and peered at the television screen. “Do you think somebody's really trying to kill her?”

“Without a doubt,” Jake said. “Just—get me a phone book. And a phone that works. I'll pay for the one I broke. And see if anybody knows anything.”

The nurse hurried in, pulled the phone book from the drawer in Jake's table, and handed it to him. “Who are you calling?”

“Her office. Maybe her secretary can tell me where she is.”

“I'll go see if she's checked in here,” she said, scurrying out of the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

C
urtis McMillan sat at his kitchen window, looking across at the neighbors clustering in Lynda's yard, marveling at how thoroughly, and how quickly, the fire had destroyed her home. He had watched all morning, trying to remember exactly what he'd seen, so that some detail that could help the police might come back to him. But there were no details. It had been too dark and had happened too fast.

He saw a car drive by, slow down in front of the skeleton of the house, then pull over on the side of the road. Curtis wondered if he was another reporter—there had been so many around early this morning. But as he got out, he saw that he didn't carry a camera or a notepad, and for a moment, he just stood and looked at the structure, as if stricken by what had happened. Then, slowly, he headed toward one of the clusters of neighbors.

“You should come away from that window, Curtis,” Lizzie said. “You're getting obsessed with it.”

Curtis glanced back at her over his shoulder. She was knitting—something for Brianna, he suspected. She had really taken to that little girl last night.

“It's not obsession, Lizzie,” he said. “It's just that I don't remember when there's been this much excitement around here. People coming and going ... Investigators, fire inspectors, reporters ...”

His eyes strayed out the window again, and he saw that the man was questioning the neighbors, and one of them was pointing toward the McMillan's house. Was he asking who had reported the fire? Or something about Lynda?

The man started to cross the street toward his house, and Curtis stood up. Something about his walk looked familiar . . . and he was the right size . . . but he couldn't swear it wasn't just his imagination groping for the culprit, trying to make up for what he hadn't seen last night. But in all his years on the bench, he'd had many cases where the perpetrator of a crime had been caught returning to the scene. Could this be . . . ?

The doorbell rang, and Lizzie jumped up. “I'll get it. Probably another reporter.”

But Curtis didn't think so. He went to stand behind her, and she opened the door slightly. “Yes?”

The man flashed a smile that made Curtis uncomfortable. “Excuse me, but I'm John Hampton, a close friend and coworker of Paige Varner, the woman who was staying with Lynda Barrett. I saw her and her daughter on the news this morning—that they were in the fire. I wanted to check on them, and one of the neighbors told me you might know where I could reach them.”

Lizzie stiffened and started to close the door. “I'm sorry. I don't know where they are.”

“Well, you must have heard them discussing it last night. Didn't they mention anybody they could stay with?”

Lizzie stepped aside, and Curtis came to the door. “Paige and Brianna are fine,” he said. “No one was hurt.”

“Well—are they still with Lynda?”

“I wouldn't know,” he said. “Who did you say you are?”

“John Hampton, sir.” He reached out and shook the old man's hand. “Don't you know where either of them is?”

“I'm afraid I can't help you.” Curtis started to close the door, and the man backed away.

“All right,” he said. “Well—thanks, anyway.”

He backed down the steps, but Lizzie and Curtis kept staring at him through the narrowing opening in the door.

Lizzie closed it all the way and locked it. “Get the tag number, Lizzie,” Curtis said as he headed for the phone.

Lizzie rushed to the window and squinting, whispered the numbers out loud as the man drove off down the street. Then, quickly, she scribbled them down. “Do you think he's the one you saw last night?”

“I can't say,” Curtis told her, dialing the police station. “All I know is he's the right size. He could be the one. We'll just let the police decide.”

L
arry's eyes felt like sand by ten o'clock that morning, and he hoped his third cup of coffee would finally clear his fatigue. He poured it into the styrofoam cup, then went back to the table where Tony sat with their captain, going over the few things they did have on the Lynda Barrett case.

“I'll make sure she has a round-the-clock watch for at least a few days, but I can't do it indefinitely, guys. We just don't have enough manpower.”

Larry pulled up a chair and sat down, rubbing his eyes. “Well, maybe he'll slip up soon.”

The door opened, and one of the uniformed officers stuck his head in. “Call for you guys. It's Judge McMillan. Says he has a lead on the Barrett case.”

Larry slid his chair back. “That's Curtis. He's our eyewitness,” he told the captain. “I'll take it.”

He closed the door behind him and went out to his desk. Picking up the phone, he said, “Millsaps, here. Whatcha got, Judge?”

“A man was just by here looking for Paige and Lynda,” Curtis said. “He said his name is John Hampton, and he insisted that he had to know how to reach them. Now I may be jumping to conclusions, but I thought you—”

“You didn't tell him anything, did you?”

“No, of course not.”

“John Hampton, huh?” Larry asked, jotting down the name. “Can you give me a description?”

“About five-eight, 180 pounds,” Curtis said. “He may be just what he said he was, of course—a concerned friend—but one can never be sure. Lizzie got his license number just in case.”

Larry sat back hard in his chair, smiling. “Tell her if I were there I'd kiss her. What's the number?” He wrote it down. “Thanks, Judge. If he comes back, you call me. Meanwhile, we'll find out who this sucker is, and if he's involved, you can bet we'll pick him up.”

He hung up, tore off the page with the license number, and turned to the computer on his desk. “Lucy, go in there and get Tony,” he said, punching the numbers onto the keyboard to start a search. “Tell him I may have something.”

He waited a few seconds as the computer searched, and just as the license number surfaced, Tony reached Larry's desk.

“What is it?”

“A guy showed up at Judge McMillan's house, looking for Paige and Lynda. They got his tag number.”

He watched as the information scrolled down the screen then finally stopped on a name. “Well, he lied about his name. That's a bad sign.”

“Who is it?” Tony asked, leaning on the desk.

“Says the car belongs to Keith A. Varner.”

“Varner. Isn't that Paige's name?”

“Yep.” Punching a command on the keyboard, Larry started a cross-search for any information he could find on the man. “That's her exhusband, all right. We show a restraining order against him.”

“But that doesn't make sense,” Tony said. “Paige wasn't anywhere near that plane. And last night their daughter was with her. Would he deliberately burn down a house with his child in it?”

“He would if he's a nut case.” Larry pressed the button for a printout, then tore it out of his printer. “Happens all the time. I say we pick him up.”