With Deadly Intent (22 page)

An overwhelming desire to lie down next to him held her immobile. A warm rush jolted her
at the thought. After gazing at him for another moment, she sighed and swung around to
leave. In turning, she blundered into a table stacked with books and several of them
thudded onto the floor.

Simon reared up on one elbow. “Huh?” He focused on her. “What is it? Has something
happened?”

“I ... I must talk to you.” She shifted her feet and curled her toes into the braided
rug. “I have to talk to you r-right n-now.”

He flipped the sheet over the lower portion of his body, lowered his head to the pillow
and regarded her with a gentle expression. In the silence, she grew conscious of her
rapid breathing and equally rapid pulse. His gaze trapped hers and held it, a mute
question in their depths. After an interminable moment, he stretched out his arm, turned
his hand palm up, and curled his fingers slightly.

His gesture started a throbbing deep inside her. So easy. Join hands, join bodies. The
fierce longing increased.
He wants you, you want him. Isn't that enough?

She shook her head as if answering her own question and backed away. “Put on some
clothes. I'll meet you in the kitchen.”

In her room, she caught sight of herself in a mirror. Her eyes, her mouth, her breasts,
her clinging gown, every part of her betrayed her desire—no wonder he'd thought what he
did. How could she have been so dumb? She stuck her feet into slippers and put on a
floor-length robe of peach-colored fleece. The bulky garment camouflaged all her curves.

Good going, Prescott. You ‘re great at locking the gate after the horses have gotten
out.
She made a face and hurried to the kitchen.

She set a jug of water in the microwave, punched in the time, and spooned cocoa mix into
yellow mugs. Despite an intense effort to keep her mind centered on Francine's shocking
announcement, she couldn't. Instead, she kept seeing the hurt in Simon's eyes when she'd
backed away from him.

His footsteps sounded on the stairs and he stalked into the kitchen wearing a frayed
T-shirt and droopy sweat pants. Legs spread, elbows akimbo, he scowled at her. “What the
hell kind of a game are you playing?”

Stiffening her muscles so she wouldn't shake, she put bread in the toaster and pushed
down the lever. “I got a phone call.” Her teeth began to chatter and she clamped them
shut. At that moment, the microwave bell went off. Glad for the interruption, she took
out the hot water and stirred it into cocoa mix.

“And...” he said gruffly, continuing to glower.

She handed him a mug. “I wanted to talk it over with you.”

“That's not what it looked like.”

The toast popped up. She snatched a knife and began to spread butter. “Yeah ... well ...
I didn't know you'd be"—warmth flooded her face—"or that I'd...” She glanced up and
found herself looking straight into his eyes. Deep in the irises, tiny green specks
shimmered.

Her lip quivered and she caught it with her teeth. “I'm sorry, it won't happen again.”
His belligerent manner didn't soften an iota.

She gave an inward sigh. Her actions had been needlessly thoughtless. She shouldn't have
gone to his room.

She sprinkled cinnamon flavored sugar on the toast, and cut each piece from corner to
corner. Now, things would probably never be the same, between them again. Suddenly she
felt drained, exhausted beyond all reason. She put more bread in the toaster, picked up
her mug and the short stack of toast. “Let's sit down.”

She had intended to dramatize Francine's announcement of Elise's death. Instead, she
blurted it out and waited for Simon's reaction.

Simon fixed her with a cold, sarcastic eye and bit off a piece of toast. “Obviously, the
woman has some cogs missing.”

Amy took a sip of her cocoa. “I know it sounds wild, but we can't just dismiss it
either.”

“Why not? We know her story isn't true. It can't be.” He flung out his hands. “I lived
with Elise for three months.” He rose to his feet, put both hands on the table and
leaned toward her until they were only inches apart. “Three months, Amy. No way could I
live with a woman that long and not know who she was.”

“Really ...?” Amy set down her mug. “You said she lied. What makes you think she told you
the truth about anything?”

He swayed, turned slightly pale. “This whole damn thing is crazy, too crazy to even
consider.” He sank back onto his chair. “Holy Jesus, if she wasn't Elise, who the hell
was she and why did she take Elise's name?” He shuddered. “Don't answer that because I
don't want to know.”

Amy found a tablet and recorded the phone conversation as accurately as she could. Below
it, she wrote Wade Marchmont's name, and pushed the tablet over to Simon. “Let's start
with him. If Francine's telling the truth, he's guilty of murder.”

Simon read the words over twice. “She implies it wasn't the first time he'd gotten one of
the staff"—he grimaced—"or maybe even one of the patients, pregnant.”

“Wouldn't surprise me. That creep who tried to rape me hinted that he'd been intimate
with some of the women patients.” She shuddered. “Perhaps it's one of the ways Marchmont
repays the men for keeping their mouths shut about his own peccadilloes.”

She cradled her mug in both hands, took a drink, and gazed at him over the rim. “Perhaps
there were other wrongful deaths. That grounds keeper at the Marchmont cemetery said,
‘Nobody's allowed in here except Mr. Marchmont.' He must have wanted to conceal
something. Otherwise, why would he have given such an order?”

Simon's eyes widened. “That would account for him getting shook-up when he saw the
newspaper article about Elise's death on Lomitas.” He took a gulp of cocoa and picked up
another piece of toast.

“And Dr. Yates' reaction, and also why Marchmont sent those two goons to kill us.” She
went to the kitchen, buttered the toast that had popped up, and brought it back to the
table.

“Good God, Amy, you're right That Svengali has everyone in White Bird in his pocket.” He
gazed into space for a second, then excitement lighted his face. “If the right people on
the outside got wind of what he's been doing—”

She put up her hand. “Hold it. Don't start twitching your investigative nose. We have to
be careful. If Francine's story is true, and Marchmont finds out she knows, her life'll
be in danger.”

“Ah,"—Simon cocked his head and held up a cautioning finger—"now there's another reason
to mistrust her. According to what she says, all this happened four years ago. Why would
she take the risk now?”

He yawned and stretched. “We'd better try and get some sleep.” He rose to his feet. “You
go on up, I'm going to check the doors and windows again.”

She took a few steps, then turned back. “Do you feel it too?”

“Feel what?”

His voice sounded casual, but she noticed the lines in his face had grown deeper. “An air
of foreboding. It's as if there's some formless monster out there manipulating us.
Whenever it suits him, he spins a bit more web and ensnares another victim.”

He laughed—hollow, tight, devoid of humor. “With an imagination like that, you should be
the writer.” He started toward the back door.

Wednesday, November 2

Next morning, at breakfast she reported Francine's phone conversation to her father.

“Don't put too much faith in what she says,” he said. “Law enforcement people get
hundreds of calls like that.”

“True, but it still intrigues me.” She watched as he smoothed a cautious hand over his
shaved scalp. The last of his sutures had been removed, but his fringe of hair would
never cover the scars. They would always show as a grim reminder.

B.J.'s fingers touched a tender spot on his head and he puckered up his face. “This case
is a real Tartar. I've seldom had one with so much confusing evidence.”

Simon poured him more coffee and refilled his own cup. “Think you and Amy could get along
without me this afternoon?”

“We can manage.” He lifted an eyebrow at Amy. “Can't we, kitten?” At her nod, he went on.
“I've been feeling guilty about taking up your time anyway. Yesterday, I talked to
Helen. She knows a gill-net fisherman who injured his left hand. He can't fish, but he's
got a family and needs money. Helen says he'd be able to handle my needs until I get
these damned casts off.”

A wretched empty feeling settled in Amy's chest. Was Simon anxious to get away from her?
She glanced at him through lowered lashes and his deflated look puzzled her.

“You're not taking up my time, B.J.,” Simon said. “I like being here with you and Amy.”

B.J. sat forward. “Your work is important, Simon. You should be out in the world where
you can make a difference.”

“A difference? Not a chance until I get out of the slump I'm in. I've written more
meaningful words in the past week than I have since Julie died.” His gaze darted to her
and back to B.J. “But if you'd rather get someone else—”

“No no, son, I enjoy your company. I just don't want to be selfish. Now, what were you
about to say when I interrupted?”

“Nothing important.” Simon glowed as if he'd been awarded the Edward R. Murrow prize for
exceptional journalism.

“Okay, if you say so.” B.J. disappeared behind his paper.

Simon spread a thick layer of strawberry jam on his toast and took a huge bite.
“Delicious,” he said when he swallowed. “Almost as good as the cinnamon toast you made
last night.” His gaze touched hers, moved down to her mouth, then upward to capture her
gaze again. Slowly as if searching for a stray bit of jelly, he ran the tip of his
tongue along his lips.

She felt as if a steel band had tightened around her chest. She took a quick,
open-mouthed breath and without thinking touched her lip with her tongue. Simon's eyes
changed from hazel to smoldering mahogany and his features took on a sensual look. Heat
flooded her face. Mating games weren't her strong point. They made her uneasy. What if
she couldn't, or wouldn't follow through?

The corners of Simon's mouth curved in a half smile. Regarding her tenderly through
half-closed lids, he tilted his chin ever so slightly—once, twice, three times—in subtle
invitation.

Perspiration dampened her neck and still he held her captive with his gaze. From a long
way off, she heard her father's paper crackle.

What am I doing?

She broke eye contact with Simon and sat gripping her shaking hands in her lap.
Does
he mean it, or is he only getting even for last night?

She jumped up and began to clear the table, giving him a wide berth. He rose and began to
help. When their bodies accidentally brushed, both of them jerked back as if burned.

He mumbled something about making an appointment with Mrs. Michaels at Dr. Tambor's
office and hurried out of the room. In a short while he came back. “She won't see me.
Says she knows who I am now and that I'm just as rotten as Elise said I was.” He leaned
against the cabinet. “She blames me for everything that's happened. Everything. Can you
beat that?” He went to help B.J. back to bed.

When he returned, Amy finished wiping off the counter and set the sponge under the sink.
“So how about getting at Mrs. Michaels from another angle?” She dried her hands, took a
pad from beside the kitchen phone and wrote down a number. “Maybe you can get the
answers you need through Lt. Salgado.”

“I doubt it, but I'll give it a shot.” He tore off the sheet and started out.

“He's more cooperative if you have something to trade. But don't tell him about
Francine.” She grinned. “He has enough to cope with as it is.”

Simon grinned back. “Gotcha.”

She finished her cleaning and went down to the lab. After thumbing through all their
reference books, she reviewed the collected evidence. Finally, she decided she needed
more proof to support her theory. She went upstairs in search of Simon.

She found him in the library working at his laptop computer. “Do you have a pair of
sneakers I can borrow for a little while?”

“Sure do. What're you up to?”

“I'm going over to Prescott's Byway. That's where I discovered the clearest footprint. I
want to run a controlled experiment.”

“Could I come along?”

She remembered the charged atmosphere at breakfast. With him watching her, she'd be all
thumbs. “We—ell, I really—”

“I can be your gofer.” He shut down his computer and came around the desk. “You'll need
equipment, won't you? I promise to keep my mouth shut and not get in your way.” He
raised three fingers in the Boy Scout oath. “Honest.”

If she turned down his offer, he'd link it with her actions last night. She shrugged. “I
can always use an extra pair of arms. I want to check in with Dad first.”

“Good idea.” Simon followed her down the hall.

She found B.J. propped up in bed with a stack of forensic journals on either side of him.
He grinned as they came to stand beside him. “Don't let all this fool you, I've been
beating a few bushes and I have news.”

Amy regarded him with a severe expression. “Don't go pushing yourself.”

B.J. gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. “Hush, girl. I'm too old to change my ways.
Now, listen. I talked to a medical examiner in Billings, Montana. We met at a seminar
several years ago. He's retired now. I told him about Wade Marchmont and asked him to
nose around.”

Amy puckered up her forehead in a worried frown. “Did you tell him Francine Anseth could
lose her life if he happens to talk to the wrong person?”

“You bet I did and also that asking questions could land him in hot water.” He smiled.
“The guy is going nutty with nothing to do. He welcomed the excitement.” He sobered.
“But he's no fool. He'll step lightly.”