Deadly Lies (40 page)

Where the hell was Molly?

“How did you get in here?” Jill asked through gritted teeth. “The house is being watched.”

Jill thought about the squad car Captain Lewis had posted outside their house after Jackson’s attack. She’d cut through the backyard to avoid being seen.

“Oh, you mean the police officers your husband was kind enough to dismiss when he got home? Made my job a hell of a lot easier, I have to say. Duke was planning to take care of them. But turns out, Alex saved us the trouble. I suppose he didn’t want any witnesses for your little showdown. Am I right, Alex?”

“Where’s Duke now?” Alex asked.

“I’m right here.”

Duke materialized from the shadow of the darkened doorway. The silver hoops in his ears glinted in the dim light. His flat blue eyes met hers and Jill pulled in a sharp breath.

“Duke here took care of your dog. She was kicking up quite a fuss. Wouldn’t do to disturb the neighbors.”

Alex flinched, and Jill saw a flicker of pain spasm across his face. In an instant, it was gone.

“How’s your partner?” Duke asked. His lips spread wide in a junkyard-dog grin. “He wasn’t looking so good last time I saw him.”

Alex’s jaw clenched tight as his gaze shifted toward Duke. The same hate she felt was reflected in Alex’s cold stare. Jill lunged, pushing off Honeywell, hoping to catch him off guard. But he was too strong. He held her pinned tight against him. The gun dug painfully into her flesh.

“Jill.” Alex shook his head. A warning.

“Try it again, bitch. I’m fucking begging you,” Honeywell breathed into her ear.

Jill heard a rumble coming from the table. Alex’s cell phone shimmied across the surface. The ringer was off, and it was set to vibrate.

Did she hear sirens? Impossible. Wishful thinking on her part. But then she caught Honeywell’s reflection in the window. His attention shifted to the cell phone. His grip loosened a fraction, and Jill knew this was her only chance. She slammed the heel of her foot down hard on Honeywell’s instep.

Honeywell gasped and she pushed off hard, sinking an elbow solidly into his gut. Leaping forward, she broke free of his grasp and stumbled toward Alex. In one fluid motion, Alex grabbed her shirt and shoved her back behind him. She fell, hurtling toward the backdoor. He reached for the gun he had tucked behind his back. Her gun.

The crack of gunfire rang in Jill’s ears as Alex crumpled to the floor, inches from where she lay on her side. She smelled the acrid stench of cordite and blood. Looking up, Jill saw a red stain bloom on the front of Honeywell’s shirt as he fell.

Honeywell’s gun clanged to the floor, and without hesitation Jill grabbed it and leveled it at Duke. She pulled the trigger and emptied the clip into Duke’s broad chest. Duke’s head hit the floor with a sickening crack. The swelling pool of blood assured Jill he was dead.

She heard the sirens draw closer. Jill scrambled toward Alex, palms firmly planted over the wound in his chest. She tried desperately to stem the flow of blood. She moved one hand to Alex’s throat. She felt a pulse, weak, but there. Blood seeped from beneath his body, soaking her bent knees as she crouched over him.

“Stay with me, Alex. Help is almost here,” she whispered in the darkened room. “Stay with me.”

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

S
unlight warmed Jill’s back as she stretched a long strip of packing tape across the flaps of the cardboard box, sealing it closed. Gently placing the tape gun at her feet, she picked the box up and set it on top of the shortest stack lining the garage wall.

Molly groaned softly. She lay, half propped against the line of boxes, head resting on the asphalt. The fur around the wound in her shoulder had mostly grown back. Jill could still see the four-inch crescent shaped scar where Duke’s bullet had wounded the dog. Molly didn’t run anymore, but she got around reasonably well.

Cool wind ruffled Jill’s hair, bringing with it the floral scent of the fruit trees now in bloom. She would miss this, these rare Seattle days in early spring when the rains had passed and the air carried the freshness of the season.

The crunch of footsteps on gravel perked Molly’s ears. Jill turned. Jackson lumbered down the driveway toward her. The smile that settled across his wide lips was subdued. His gait was slow, each step proof enough that there were still some lingering effects from the shooting.

“You’re looking a little the worse for wear,” she said, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

Jill smiled. She would miss the deep, velvety warmth of his voice. Jackson reached for her, enveloping her in the gentlest of bear hugs. She closed her eyes. Good-byes weren’t her strong suit, and she’d said
too many of them already. The lump in her throat dissipated, and she stepped out of the protective circle of his arms.

“You look like you’re making good progress.” Jackson nodded toward the boxes littering a third of the open space. Molly struggled to her feet and ambled toward Jackson. Her tail wagged low around her hindquarters. Jackson bent to scratch her behind the ears. Molly’s tail swung in lazy arcs.

“Getting close.”

“Sure I can’t help you with this?”

She appreciated Jackson’s loyalty. In the months since Alex’s funeral, he had dropped in to check on her regularly, while everyone else had silently dropped away. Molly plunked down on the concrete beside Jackson, her bulk wedged against his leg.

“I don’t think your doctor would approve.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t fucking hurt him.”

“Superman. Right. I forgot.” Jill wagged her head. Having survived a vicious attack, here he was older and wiser, but still larger than life.

As the laughter settled between them, Jill’s eyes strayed to the interior of the garage, beyond the neatly stacked boxes, beyond the piles of items she had set aside for Goodwill, to a series of canvases she had propped in a clearing, for safekeeping.

She must have packed away dozens of Alex’s sketch pads, full of drawings and caricatures—some of faces she knew, others that she didn’t. Over the past few years, there hadn’t been much time for more serious projects. It wasn’t talent he lacked, but maybe time, or inspiration. There were at least a dozen canvases showing his skill with oil paints. He’d finished this one just before football season started.

“I found something Alex would have wanted you to have.”

The corners of Jackson’s mouth tightened, and she could see him pull in a deep, steadying breath. Jill pivoted and headed inside the garage. Bending down, she flipped through the canvases until she found what she wanted.

“He was planning to give this one to you for your birthday. He titled it
The big 4-0
.”

She turned the canvas toward Jackson as she approached. His lips parted, large hands reaching for it as she handed it to him. Surprise, admiration, and pain all flashed across his face in quick succession before his eyes met Jill’s.

Alex had completed the portrait from memory. A smiling Jackson filled the canvas and was looking down, away from the artist. Somehow Alex had captured the essence of his friend in a way that showed the world what he saw when he looked at Jackson. The canvas reflected back a face that combined intelligence and wit.

“I knew he was good, but I didn’t know he could do this.” Jackson voice was thick with emotion as he shifted his gaze from Jill back to the painting.

“In the five years we were married, this was the only painting he completed. You were very important to him.”

Jackson moved his lips wordlessly before angling the painting in toward his chest, as if he was unable to look at it any longer. Jill stepped forward, wrapping her arms loosely around his waist.

“You’ve meant a lot to both of us.”

They stood silently, leaning against each other for a long moment before Jackson cleared his throat. Jill stepped away.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He gestured toward the boxes again. “You’re sure you’re ready to leave?”

Her smile was tight and she angled her eyes toward the garage floor. A thick lock of dark hair fell across her forehead, and she tucked it back behind her ear. Did she want to leave? Oh yes. It was only through a sheer force of will that she had stayed this long. Besides, she would begin to show soon. The home pregnancy test confirmed what she began to suspect not long after the funeral. This was news she had no intention of sharing.

Over the past few months, Jill had methodically searched the house for Alex’s notes on the Lilith investigation. If there were notes to be
found, they certainly were not within these walls, nor were they in his office. If they had been, someone would have found them by now. So whatever evidence Alex had amassed was safely buried. With any luck, it would never see the light of day.

“It’s time to move on,” Jill said. “I couldn’t stay here, even if I wanted to. Not after everything.”

Jackson’s nod was one of mute understanding. Everyone had expected her to move out of the house after the funeral. Instead, she stayed, insisting she was fine. Fine was an overstatement, of course. She hated the kitchen. She couldn’t go in there after dark. Too many ghosts.

“You’ve got support here—me, Alex’s family.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m the independent sort.”

Her hand grazed the slight pooch of her belly, and she thought about the life that grew there, inside her. She wouldn’t be alone. Not really. There was one part of Alex that she would carry with her.

“So what’s the temperature like in Phoenix this time of year?”

“Somewhere in the nineties, I think.”

“Shit.” Jackson blew out a long whistle between clenched teeth. “No thanks.”

“I’ll take the heat any day. It’s going to take decades before I miss the rain.”

“You’re not going to become a Cardinals fan, are you?”

Jill’s smile was wry. Jackson was every bit the Seahawks fan that Alex was.

“Not a chance,” she assured him.

Silence stretched out between them. There was nothing left to be said. Jill felt her throat constrict. She was never one for long send-offs, and Jackson’s eyes were soft on her face.

“I need you to take Molly. The move would be hard on her.”

“Just two old dogs in recovery, eh, girl?”

Molly wagged her tail.

“I’m not going to say good-bye,” he said at last.

“Good. I hear they’re overrated.” Her smile was a painful twist.

Tucking the canvas under his arm, he bent and buzzed her cheek with his lips. She squeezed his arm, then let go.

“Take care of yourself,” she said. “No more putting your superpowers to the test by taking on bullets.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He flipped her a mock salute. “Let me know when you get settled.”

Jill’s nod was noncommittal. She cinched the leash to Molly’s collar and handed it to Jackson. Arms folded across her chest, she watched him lumber down the driveway, Molly sticking close to his side. Jackson paused, taking a long look at the canvas before placing it carefully into the trunk. Molly jumped into the backseat. Her head dipped behind the headrest. With a final wave, he climbed into his car and pulled smoothly away from the curb.

Jill drew in a deep breath and felt the tight band compressing her chest ease. There wasn’t much left to be done now. A few more boxes to pack. The remaining items would be sold off at auction. She wanted few reminders of the life she was leaving behind.

Her thoughts turned away from the past, moving beyond Alex to a new life, a new beginning. Closing the garage door behind her, Jill stepped out of the shadows and into the sunlight.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A
lthough I’ve never been one for long-winded acknowledgements, I did want to thank the many people who shared their time and expertise with me as I wrote
Deadly Lies
.

First, to the experts I consulted during the course of writing the manuscript. Captain Neil Low of the Seattle Police Department and Constable Leigh Drinkwater from the RCMP consulted on what must have seemed a countless number of procedural aspects of the story. Former FBI agent Faye Greenlee shared her unique perspective on psychopaths and helped me understand the complex motivations that drive Jill. Michael Lee, security expert, advised on a number of computer security scenarios. Despite all the experts who shared their knowledge, I knowingly bent and in some cases broke a few of the rules around law enforcement and computer security in the writing of the book; such are the benefits of writing fiction. If you find gaps and errors in the story, please remember that my fictitious mind can be far more forgiving of some of the finer details of reality; and the weather is always sunny and the people friendly, too!

Second, thanks to the readers who provided feedback on numerous drafts and helped improve the story along the way. Gordon Patchell, Stella Du, Kevin Rice, Pam Oyanagi, and Ginna Bladassarre; without you, I probably wouldn’t have finished the book. In the middle of the fourth draft, I had the pleasure of meeting an exceptional author, Erica Bauermeister, who offered excellent insights on the story, and on writing in general. To Patty, Megan, and Angie, who threatened an
intervention if I didn’t publish the damned book. And to Mally, who was gracious enough to take time out of her busy schedule to show me the sights of San Francisco; I likely wouldn’t have been able to find my way out of the airport, not to mention making it to Shakespeare’s Garden, without you.

Finally, thanks to Geoff Robison, who designed the cover; Don Skirvin and Carl Walesa, who edited the final draft; and Lloyd Bondy, who provided his photographic expertise.