Perfect Victim, The (39 page)

He cursed his legs.

Helpless to flee or to protect himself
,
knowing he could never reach the .22 revolver in the top drawer of his desk, Jack stared at the man
a
s his heart pumped furiously
.
"The whole world kno
ws
,
"
he
s
aid.
"
You're too late. You fucking bastard
.
"

He watched powerlessly a
s
the man
'
s finger tightened
on the trigger
.
I
nstinctively
,
he braced against the impending imp
a
ct
.
A thousand thoughts rushed through his brain. The state of his life. The people he would leave behind
.
Cold, hard fea
r
hammered at him as he imagined pain and blood.

An instant later, a nine-millimeter slug exploded in his ches
t
.

Addison read the article twice before she let herself breathe
,
before
s
he let herself feel
.
She told herself she'd already known what happened to Agnes Beckett, that
this shouldn't be hitting her so hard. But to see the truth on paper shook her. One by one, the ugly words crept into a brain that didn't want to believe. The emotions swirled inside her like debris kicked up by a violent tornado.

She steeled herself against the pain, choking back the outrage, the injustice, and the bitterness that followed. Her only thought was that she had been conceived through a vile, incomprehensible act. An act of violence that made her feel dirty and sick to her stomach.

Forcing a breath into her lungs, she lowered the article, carefully folded it, and tucked it back into the bible. That poor girl was Agnes Beckett."

"Probably."

She looked down at the article. "He raped her. My ... birth father."

Randall's jaw flexed.

"They discredited her by mentioning drugs. My god."

"I think this town has a dirty little secret tucked away into its neat gutters," he said.

The thought jolted her. "What do we do now?"

"What's the byline on that story?"

She quickly scanned the article. "Al Stukins." She fought the hope rising in her chest. God, how she wanted to get off the emotional roller coaster.

''There's our witness."

''The story was written twenty-five years ago. He could be anywhere now."

"Or he could still be here in Siloam Springs."

Randall parked the car curbside across the street from McNinch's Bar. Its neon Beer on Tap sign glowed at the front window. "This is where your birth mother used to work," he said.

"This is where you spoke with the waitress."

"That's right."

Addison remembered vividly the night he'd told her about Agnes Beckett's sordid past. ''The one who told you Agnes Beckett was a prostitute?"

He nodded. "We c
a
n ask a few questions and have a sandwich if you
'
re up t
o
it
.
"

"I'll settle for a soda and some i
n
formation."

The familiar aromas of fried food, spilled beer and cigaret
t
e smoke hit Rand
a
ll in the face l
i
ke a blast furnace the ins
t
ant he walked through the door
.
I
n
the la
s
t year, he'd spent more time than he wanted to admit in b
a
rs just like this one, drinking himself into
oblivion, trying not to think about the
s
tate of his life
.

He wanted a drink now
.
W
a
nted it so badly he could already feel the burn of whiskey at the back of his throat, that heady rush of alcohol to his brain
.
He wondered if the need would always be there to torment him. He wonder
e
d if he would have given in to that need yesterday if Addison hadn't been there
.

Shaking off the cold, and thoughts he didn'
t
want to deal with at the moment, he scanned the room. To his right, a scarred wooden bar rail the length of the room. Behind it, a burly
-
looking woman with a receding hairline watched them out of the comer of her eye. From the jukebox, Eric Clapton belted out an old rock and roll song about a woman waiting for another love. Except for the group of men playing pool at the back of the room, and a thin young man hovering at the bar, the place was nearly empty.

Randall was acutely aware of the male eyes sweeping to Addison. A knot of territoriality tightened in his gut with surprising force. Casually, he put his arm around her shoulders, telling himself it wasn't a possessive gesture. He guided her to a corner booth. "Good thing we had reservations," he said, sliding into the red vinyl seat across from her.

Dark smudges
of fatigue marred the porcelain skin beneath her eyes.
Her lack of color worried him. She'd put up a valiant front, but he knew the strain was beginning to wear her down both emotionally and physically. She wasn't prepared to deal with half of what was being thrown at her
.
Dammit, she had enough to deal with without him complicating matters because he couldn't keep his hands off her.

As he stared into her fragile eyes, he almost wished he hadn't slept with her. Almost. She was beginning to mess with his head. More than just his head, if he wanted to be truthful about it. Crazy thoughts for a man who should be chomping at the bit to get back to his career. He hadn't intended for things to get so damn complicated. He hadn't intended for a lot of things to happen.

Across the table, she offered a wan smile. He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out, pull her to him, and crush that lush mouth against his for just one more taste.

"Where were you just now, Talbot?"

He smiled, wondering how she'd react if he answered truthfully. "You don't want to know," he said easily.

The last thing either of them needed was another close encounter. If he went to bed with her again, his resolve to resurrect his failed career back in D.C. might not survive.

Reining in his libido, he let his gaze travel to the bar. "See the barmaid?" he asked.

Addison turned in the booth and glanced toward the woman behind the bar. "The one missing both eyeteeth?"

"Her name is Dixie. I spoke with her the last time I was here in Siloam Springs."

"She knew Agnes Beckett?"

"They worked together for a few months."

Craning her neck, Addison regarded the woman thoughtfully. "I want to talk to her."

Randall knew she wasn't going to like what the people in this town had to say about Beckett. He wished he could protect her from the truth, from getting hurt. But she deserved the truth. Even if it wasn't pretty.

"That waitress has lived in this little town for about ten years,” he said.

Addison turned back to him, her eyes jumping with excitement. "Do you think she might be able to help us find Al Stukins?"

"
It
'
s wor
th
a shot
.
" He
wat
che
d
the barmaid app
r
oach the booth. "The b
ur
gers
ar
en
't b
ad
."

She g
r
o
a
ned
.

The ba
rma
id snapped down
tw
o menus and two
glasses of
i
ce wate
r
.
Her movements we
r
e the shor
t
, dec
i
sive movements of a woman who'd spent too many years waiting tables and too many hours on her feet
.

"Hi, there
,
" she sa
i
d with the slightest hint o
f
a twang. "What can I get you to d
r
i
n
k?"

Randall put
o
n
'
his most ch
a
r
mi
ng smile. "It's Dixie, right?"

She turn
e
d narrowed eyes on him before baring a hit
-
or-miss smile. "I never forget a face
.
" She tapped her pencil against her temple. "You're that
pr
ivate d
e
tective feller
.
Randy."

"I was wondering if you'd mind answering a
f
ew questions
.
"

"Are you kidding? This is the most exciteme
nt
I
'
ve had all week." Pulling a green order pad from the pocket of her smock, Dixie propped a chubby hip onto the table. "What do you want to know?"

"Did you know Agnes Beckett?" Addison asked abrup
t
ly.

A host of emotion
s
scrolled across
'
the woman's face
.
Surprise. Suspicion. Curiosity. "Damn shame about what happened to her
,
" she said cautiously.