Playing Dead (27 page)

He held her and Claire breathed in the familiar—and unfamiliar—scent. He was her father, but time had wedged between them. She stepped back. Looked at Nelia Kincaid again.

“Nelia saved my life. She found me in Idaho after Aaron Doherty—another escaped convict—shot me and left me for dead.”

Claire didn’t know what she could say.

“I’ve been in Idaho for the better part of four months. I was in no condition to come back here. In some ways, I wish I hadn’t, but I’m glad I did—just to see you again.” He touched her face. “To know that you believe I’m innocent. You’ve given me my life back, Claire. And I mean that. I came back to Sacramento for you. I couldn’t face my own death with you believing I was guilty.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Don’t talk that way.”

“I’m surrendering tomorrow.”

“No! Why?”

“When I heard that Oliver Maddox was dead and had been for months, I realized he had to have been killed because he was helping me. Helping prove I was innocent. When he first visited me in Quentin, I—”

“Why were you even at San Quentin in the first place?” she asked. “You were supposed to be at Folsom.”

“I wrote to Bill about it.”

“Bill?”

“Bill and I corresponded regularly. He told me everything about you. Everything that I wished I’d seen for myself.”

“Bill?” she repeated. He’d never let on. How could Bill have kept something so important from Claire?

“I told him not to tell you. You didn’t want to hear from me. I understood that. Hated it, but understood it. I guess I’d hoped that Bill would find a way through that thick head of yours.” He laughed, but the joke fell flat.

“You’re like me, Claire,” Tom said. “I was so certain of everything back then. I was positive that I would be exonerated. Because I was innocent. I was cocky for the longest time, worried more about how I was going to get my job back and take care of you. It took me a long time to realize that I was going to stay in prison until they killed me.”

He looked around, motioned toward the couch. “Let’s sit.”

Nelia said, “I’ll make some coffee.”

“Tea,” Claire and her father said simultaneously.

Nelia smiled. “Tea.” She went to the kitchen.

“Who is she?” Claire asked quietly.

“The woman I love. She saved me in more ways than one, Claire. I want to live now. But I don’t know that it will happen. But what I won’t do is be gunned down in the street like a criminal. This has to end. I didn’t realize until yesterday that I was putting you in danger. Risk, yes, of being prosecuted as an accessory, but I figured that with the backing of Rogan-Caruso and the sensitive situation of you being my daughter, you’d get off with a slap on the wrist. But I never imagined that you would be in physical danger.”

“I’m not—”

He ran his fingers through the ends of her hair. “Yes you are. Please. No more about it, okay?”

She took a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Nelia is an attorney. She’s going to arrange for my surrender. I’m going to turn myself over to the FBI.”

“The FBI? Why them?”

“I believe that if I go into state custody my days are numbered. Someone wants me dead. I’m hoping that the FBI will listen to what I know.”

“You can’t trust them. You can’t trust anyone, Dad. Except me. I’m working on this. I already know so much more than you did yesterday morning. Stay away. I’ll figure it out, I promise.”

Nelia came in with a tray of teacups. She put it down and sat on the armrest of the chair Tom was sitting in. He absently took her hand. The simple sign of affection wasn’t lost on Claire.

“Frank Lowe died in a fire the night after Mom was killed,” Claire said.

“That’s not possible. Oliver said he’d tracked down Frank Lowe and that he had the key to what happened.”

“Lowe died in a fire, but Oliver told Bill that he thought he was alive. I don’t see how—it’s actually hard to fake your own death. Disappear? Much easier.”

“Oliver must have had a reason to think Lowe wasn’t dead.”

She frowned. “Maybe. I do know that Lowe’s boss at the time now owns a bar in Isleton. Oliver was returning from Isleton when he went into the river.”

“Stop. Stop looking into this right now,” her dad said.

“I’m going to find out who killed Mom and Chase Taverton.”

“Dammit, Claire!” He took a deep breath and turned to Nelia.

“Claire,” Nelia said, “if anything happened to you, Tom wouldn’t be able to live with it. You have to step back.”

Claire shook her head and looked at the ceiling. “You might think you know me, but you don’t.” She looked from Nelia to her father. “I’m not the naïve fourteen-year-old who was in shock during your trial. I’m a trained private investigator. Oliver Maddox found Chase Taverton’s personal day planner. He had a copy of it. That disappeared, and so did the original. Taverton’s sister gave it to a cop who claimed he was from the Sacramento County Superior Court.

“A friend of mine at the morgue told me Oliver swallowed a flash drive. The FBI has it. Something important was on there. Something that
might
prove you’re innocent. And there are other things. Like your transcripts are missing from the county archives. There are no coroner’s reports on the murders.”

Her dad leaned forward, a stern look on his face. “Don’t you see? Someone powerful is calling the shots.”

“What powerful person would want Chase Taverton dead? To the extent that he would frame an innocent man, destroy government records, and kill a law student?”

“Someone with a lot to hide, and even more to protect,” Nelia said softly.

Tom and Claire turned to her.

Nelia said, “You two are so much alike. If the situation weren’t so dire, I would laugh. Stubborn. Determined. Smart. Temperamental. But we know that Tom is innocent. That he was framed. That someone else killed two people, but we don’t know the motive.”

“It was about Taverton,” Claire said.

Nelia nodded. “Prosecutors make enemies, but usually they leave a paper trail. Something to follow that shows what they were working on.”

“Wouldn’t they be working only after an arrest?” Claire asked. “I mean, isn’t their job to prosecute those arrested for a crime?”

“Usually,” Nelia said, “but sometimes they are involved in sting operations. Or they arraign a petty criminal who has information to take down a bigger fish.”

“Frank Lowe,” Claire said. “He was a petty thief. He was arrested two weeks before he died in a fire. It’s too big a coincidence that Lowe died about the same time Taverton did. What happens after someone is arraigned?” she asked Nelia, who seemed to know more about legal issues than she did.

“He’s a thief? So he was caught robbing someone. He was arrested, put in jail, and then arraigned within seventy-two hours—that’s usually the case. Could have been out on bail pending trial. An investigation would continue. That’s when the district attorney would go through the case, making sure he had everything he needed for a conviction. There could be a plea agreement between the D.A.’s office and the defense. Often for a lesser charge or lighter prison term.”

“Are you a prosecutor?” Claire asked, suspicious.

Nelia shook her head. “I used to be a corporate attorney. My ex-husband is a D.A.”

Claire glanced at her dad, but he wasn’t concerned. He looked at Nelia as if she were a goddess.

Claire pulled her gaze away. “What if Tip Barney, Lowe’s old boss, knew what Lowe and Taverton knew?”

“Then why is he still alive?” Nelia asked. “If Barney had information that would have hurt someone, he would have been killed. That follows this pattern.”

“He could be part of it, Claire,” her father warned. “I don’t want you going down there. Leave it to the FBI.”

She jumped up. “They’re not going to even try and prove your innocence. All they care about is putting you back in prison!”

When neither of them said anything, Claire knew she was right—and so did they.

“I have to do this.”

“It’s okay, Claire. I can die now.”

“No! Dammit, what’s with this fatalistic attitude? You escaped during the earthquake, why? To go back and die?”

“I escaped so that I could have a chance to convince you I didn’t kill your mom.”

“No. No! You escaped to prove you’re innocent. Fifteen years was stolen from us. Half my life I hated you. Hated myself. It was a lie. We can’t get the time back, but we can find out who took it away from us.”

“I’m turning myself in.”

“Please don’t—”

Nelia said, “Claire, he has to. He can’t live the rest of his life running. And—” She glanced at Tom, worry crossing her face.

“What?” She looked from Nelia to her dad, fear making her heart beat faster.

“There’s a bullet in me. Nelia patched me up, but she couldn’t remove the bullet. It’s been bothering me the last few weeks. We think it’s shifted.”

“Bothering.” Nelia shook her head. “Your dad has been in severe pain. His legs are weak, and he’s experienced numbness during the last few days. He needs medical attention.”

Claire stared at them in disbelief. “They’re not going to do anything to save you when they plan to execute you in six weeks.”

“I’ll take my chances. If I keep running I doubt I have six days, let alone six weeks.”

This was not happening. Claire closed her eyes, tried to change it, but when she opened them Nelia and her father stared at her.

“I’m going to do everything I can, Claire, to make surgery a term of his voluntary surrender,” Nelia said with passion. “Your father saved lives these last four months. He was responsible for apprehending nearly every one of the escaped fugitives. They owe him.”

“They won’t see it like that.”

“I’ll convince them.”

Claire desperately wanted to believe Nelia. But she also feared this would be the last time she saw her dad. She believed him, believed
in
him, and now he tells her he’s dying?

“Dad.”

He held her tight and she clung to him like a little girl awakened by a nightmare. Her daddy. Her protector.

Now it was up to her to save him.

TWENTY-FOUR

The assassin watched the GPS tracking program on his computer. Claire was still at home. Good. He glanced at the clock. Nine thirty. It was getting late and he still had many chores to complete.

First things first. He learned long ago that he couldn’t keep the girls alive indefinitely. The first time, he’d had a warped idea that he could convince the young runaway to stay with him, to be his forever, and she had played along.
Played
with him. But the first opportunity she had, she ran.

He’d caught her, but it had been close. Too close. He wouldn’t trust another one, no matter what they said or promised.

His mother had promised she wasn’t going to die, and she died.

Bridget had promised he was her special man, and she lied.

He’d hoped someday Claire would come to him, stay with him, on her own, but that wasn’t going to happen. He could dream about it with the heart that loved her, but in his calculating mind he knew she’d never feel for him what he felt for her.

He could protect her from himself for only so long. With the discovery of Oliver Maddox’s body, there was a chance he could be exposed. He listened for the telltale police cars in his driveway, one ear cocked to the police scanner.

There was no way he would go to prison and leave Claire to someone else. It physically hurt knowing other men had slept with her, but he’d allowed it because he hadn’t been ready yet. Self-preservation drove his actions for years.

But if decades of secrets leaked out, he would have to kill her. Better to have her dead and buried than for him to be locked behind bars knowing another man had her body and her heart.

There was all the difference in the world between killing the runaways and killing Claire. First, no one missed the runaways. Claire had people who would look for her if she disappeared. Her employer, her friends. That made taking her dangerous.

But with Tom O’Brien on the run and the stress of these last months on her, coupled with the newly discovered information about her boyfriend, taking her now and making it look like she’d killed herself . . . or run away . . . was tempting.

He’d think about that.

For now, he needed to take care of the girl in the shed.

He left his house and crossed to the back of his property, protected by rows of trees that were a windbreak, as well as a sound barrier. Even if the girl screamed, no one would hear unless the wind was just right.

The evening was still warm after the hot day. Another reason he couldn’t leave the girl for long. Without food and water in this heat, she’d die and start to decompose. Flies would lay eggs and maggots would infest her orifices and her skin would get slimy and start sliding off.

He hated the dead.

He unlocked the shed. If it hadn’t been shaded by the trees, the girl would likely have died from the heat. She was kneeling where he’d left her early this morning chained to the wall. The white gown he’d put on her was dirty from sweat and the dust in the shed. He cleaned the place weekly, but still dirt accumulated. Her arms were bolted to the wall, body sagging to the floor. He had no desire to torture the girls, but he found that if he restrained them in a prone position they regained some of their strength. He didn’t want to have to explain any scratches or bruises she might inflict, and he couldn’t take sick time now.

“Hi, Claire,” he said. He never knew the names of the girls. They may have told him, but he never remembered. In his mind they were all Claire.

She whimpered, straining against the tape secured across her mouth. Her chest and neck were bruised. He felt bad about that. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but it was inevitable when they had sex that she’d get hurt. It was something he was working on; he didn’t want to hurt Claire when he made love to her.

But if he wanted to feel anything, he had to hold them tight. Squeeze them. And like a treasured insect in a young boy’s hand, sometimes the life got squeezed out of them. It wasn’t his fault they were too fragile.

He touched her black hair. Longer than Claire’s, the way Claire used to wear it. Long and flowing.