Unintended Target (Unintended Series Book 1) (3 page)

FOUR

126 Edwards Street. The address echoed in Korrigan’s mind as he pulled onto the quiet drive nestled in the heart of one of Atlanta’s tucked away downtown neighborhoods. At six at night it was already dark, the blackness cut only by pockets of light from street lamps sparsely lining the road. Ancient oaks towered above even the tallest of the ivy draped brick homes, most of which were red, although several had been painted white or some other classic shade as part of the area’s restoration.

He slowed to a crawl as he came upon it, the white one-story with green shutters. The long porch displayed concrete planters, filled with struggling yellow and purple pansies. Burgeoning hollies threatened to overtake the windows, already partially obscuring the sills. A stone path led through the brown Bermuda grass to the front steps. A wrought iron fence encircled the backyard and served as a trellis for the dormant rose bushes along its length.

It was charming, but had an unmistakable sense of neglect about it. Baseball sized patches in the paint showed through to raw wood. Two ugly cracks snaked across the panes of the front bay window. At one corner, a section of gutter sagged sadly below the roofline. Ms. McConnaughey’s landlord was apparently too busy or too cheap to be diligent about upkeep.

Korrigan turned into the pebbled driveway, followed it to its end behind the house and parked. A quick glance in the rear view mirror confirmed his cap was on straight, his dark hair tucked neatly beneath it. Out of habit, he felt for the weapon beneath his grey coveralls, then grabbed the air-pump insecticide dispenser off the passenger seat and tucked it under his arm. He stepped out, confident that the combination of a uniform, equipment and a magnetic “T&B Exterminators, Inc.” sign slapped on the SUV’s side would lead nosy neighbors to believe he was simply a bug-man finishing up a late afternoon appointment.

Ten quick strides and he was at the back door. Kneeling down, he retrieved a small black case from his jacket pocket, opened it, and selected the middle of five short-handled, metal picks. He inserted the tiny tool into the keyhole and maneuvered it expertly back and forth until he heard a click, then slipped inside.

The house was quiet and dark. Korrigan slipped a pencil flashlight from his back pocket and, after drawing the blinds, flicked it on. He stood just inside a buttery-yellow kitchen that was no doubt obnoxiously cheery in daylight. A weathered French country dining set was centered in front of the window overlooking the backyard. A ceramic bowl on the floor cradled several nuggets of old dog food.

He set to work immediately, searching drawers, cabinets, and anything else that seemed a plausible hiding place. He pulled the backs off of framed photographs and checked behind artwork on the walls. He removed cushions, then replaced them; unscrewed the bottoms of lamps, then re-tightened them. Nothing. No hard paperwork or documentation of any kind. Her laptop was gone, presumably with her. He found a few random memory cards and flash drives in a desk drawer and scooped them up. He doubted they were what he wanted, though, left out like this, unhidden. Probably just more of her regular photography.

Under the four-poster bed in the master bedroom he found tattered pillows, outdated magazines, and lots of dust. The closet contained more than a dozen shoeboxes. In one he found a single strand of pearls and two hundred dollars in bills of various denominations, possibly hidden for safekeeping by McConnaughey before her flight to St. Gideon earlier that day. He replaced the box, then checked the chest at the foot of the bed. The pine armoire. The dresser. Still nothing.

He checked his watch. Nearly seven. Staying more than an hour was imprudent. Leaving the house looking no worse for his having been there, he locked up behind him and headed back to his SUV. As he started to slide into the driver’s seat, he heard someone call out, “Excuse me . . . young man?”

Korrigan whipped around to see an elderly woman in a pink-flowered housedress and well-worn slippers padding over to him from the house across the street. She waved weakly at him as she started up McConnaughey’s short driveway and called out again. “Young man?”

He stepped away from the truck and, keeping his face tilted low, plastered on a smile. “Yes?”

She stopped about halfway, apparently unwilling to get any closer, which was fine by him. All the more difficult for her to make him out.

“I’ve got an ant problem on my back porch and wondered if you might come take a look at it. I was going to call someone, but I saw your truck and thought maybe you could do it while you’re here. I could pay you.”

He could have snuffed her out in about ten seconds’ time and even made it look like an accident. An unfortunate tumble down her own stairs. But given that she hadn’t seen him close up, that would be an unnecessary complication that would likely lead to more questions than his mere presence at McConnaughey’s home. It wouldn’t be clean, and he was all about clean. All about
precise.

Effecting a strong country accent, he replied, “Sorry, ma’am. Can’t now. Full load and I’m already late—the boss’ll kill me. I could come back later tho’. It’d be one hundred for the initial visit and then three–fifty for the treatment. That okay?”

Her eyes widened at the mention of the pricing, apparently too high for her liking. Which was exactly what Korrigan had been counting on.

“Oh, well, no. No, that’s all right. I’ll just . . . call someone else if it . . . can’t be now. Thank you,” she stammered, and turned back towards her house, padding away.

“Suit yourself, ma’am,” he mumbled, starting up the truck and backing down the drive. He rolled down the street, watching in the rear view mirror as she went through her own screen door. Satisfied he had neutralized the situation, he turned his gaze back to the road and took stock of his search.

Not a surprise, really. McConnaughey’s apartment in Miami had been the same. Completely clean. And every contact Tate McConnaughey had there and here and everywhere in between had also turned up absolutely nothing. Which meant the girl really was their only link. But her place was squeaky clean, too.

The side trip to Atlanta had represented a substantial delay, but he didn’t trust the job to anyone else. He had needed to know for certain and the only way he could have any real confidence in the results was if he handled the job himself.
Purposeful. Pitiless. Precision. Leads to perfection.
It was his mantra, one that had been beaten into him by his stepfather, and one that had made him very, very good at his job. The best.

Now that he was confident the answer wasn’t in Atlanta, there was only one trail left to follow. And it led straight to St. Gideon.

FIVE

Whistling. Cheerful, melodic whistling. Chloe yawned and opened her eyes, squinting at the sunlight streaming through the ocean view window beside the bed. A soft breeze darted between the sill and sash, rippling the gauzy white sheers. She spotted the happy culprit; a tiny green parakeet perched on a palm branch outside. Chloe glanced at the clock. It was nine in the morning.

She padded through the cottage, the tile cool on her bare feet. The first order of business was coffee, brewed strong and sweetened with French vanilla creamer. Chloe carried the ceramic mug back to her room and pulled on a white tee shirt and running shorts. After downing what was left in the cup, she left it in the sink and headed out the front door.

The cottage was one of two dozen in a development ensconced at various altitudes of a steep but narrow hill overlooking the shore. Chloe’s was one of three perched on its minimal top, offering her a glorious panoramic view of the uncompromised beach and the gentle tide beyond. The pebbles of her front walk crunched beneath her feet as she made her way to the gravel road that spiraled down the hill to the highway seventy yards below. The wood siding cottages were small but inviting variations on the same basic floor plan, each crisply painted some neutral, earthy shade and trimmed in stark white, fronted by stained timber doors. Chloe’s brisk stride quickly took her past the house next door where, as usual, its silver haired, muumuu wearing occupant was fixed firmly in her front porch swing, hard at work on what was, no doubt, the
Sun Times
crossword puzzle.

“Hey Ruby,” Chloe called, waving without stopping.

Sixty-two-year-old Ruby Kreinberg, with her outdated beehive hairdo and kind eyes, looked up and smiled genuinely. “Hi sweetie,” she yelled back. “Want some coffee? It’s ‘Snickerdoodle’ something or other. My daughter sent it.” The widow’s husband had made the down payment on the little beach house with their retirement savings, then died of a heart attack before they could move there. Ruby had honored their plans, following through by herself, hoping to find a little peace in the change. Chloe could relate.

“Thanks, but no. I’ve already had a cup today.”

“Well, maybe later, then. After your morning walk. You’re so good to do that every day.” She patted her swollen hips. “Putting on a few pounds too many myself. Maybe I should start. Never really wanted to take long walks back in Chicago, but this place is different.”

“Well, you’re welcome to tag along anytime.”

“You’re so sweet to this old widow. Promise you’ll come by later, doll. I’m baking brownies.” 

Chloe nodded as she waved goodbye. “Promise.”

Past Ruby’s house the road steepened sharply, and Chloe’s footsteps quickened as she descended around the bend. She breathed in deeply, taking in the salt air and feeling the muscles stretch in her legs. Ruby was right; it was good exercise. And not just for her body. Her mind got a workout, too.

She’d been on the island for three weeks now. She couldn’t decide if it seemed like an eternity or no time at all. For the most part it depended on her mood, and whether she had been reminiscing. She had been disappointed to find that even on the island she couldn’t avoid the spells of remembering, which on these morning walks occurred frequently. But it was part of the process, or so Izzie assured her. At least she wasn’t crying as much anymore.
Maybe that’s progress
, she hoped. But she still missed Tate with an acute ache that, had she not known better, she would have sworn ebbed from an actual, physical hole in heart where he’d been cut out.

Chloe reached the end of the street and crossed the highway that ran parallel to the beach. She headed to the shore by way of the small gravel lot occupied by a few cars and one Jeep. At the edge of the gravel she picked up the pace and started down the sand.

* * * * *

She didn’t even look at him as she passed by his door. He was just another tourist, spending one precious vacation morning out for a look at the sea before the sharp heat of noon.

His cell phone vibrated in his shirt pocket, sending an unpleasant sensation through his chest. Keeping Chloe McConnaughey in his sights, he answered.

“Yeah.”

“I just got word from Miami,” reported a clipped voice on the other end. “They’ve got a lead they’re working on. We should know something soon.”

“What does he want me to do?” he asked, shifting a bit to maintain his view of the woman.

“Stick to the plan for now and stay as close as you can.”

* * * * *

Chloe figured she’d do her standard two miles, one mile one way, then back up. Though early by island standards, a few people had already staked claims along the beachfront. The waves were lazy, likely a letdown for surfers paddling their boards near the sandbar. She passed several sunbathers and children building lopsided castles in the sand. A couple strolled by in the other direction, their feet toying with the water’s edge.

As her feet pummeled the sand in a steady jog, she considered her time on the island. It had been a good decision to stay here, even if it did qualify as running away. She could breathe and she could think and she could pretend she wasn’t the product of the tragic life that she’d had no choice in. And though she missed Izzie and Jonah, they were the only parts of her life in Atlanta that she missed.

Her creative juices were flowing here, too. The island had proven to be a treasure trove of interesting, culturally distinct locales. She’d spent the first week, which was the only one on
Terra Traveler’s
tab, exploring as much of the British sugar-cane-colony-turned-vacation-hot-spot as she could. She’d hit the artsy town on the western tip near the hundred-foot cliffs where divers risked their lives with every leap. The rustic fishing villages that still used centuries-old methods. The beach clubs nestled amongst ocean front resorts on the flat stretches of sand to the south. And Binghamton’s market quarter, where locals hawked spiced meats, local produce and handmade clothing. The praise-filled article highlighting the island for potential vacationers had come easily, and she’d emailed that to Izzie last week. Now she was on her time.

She passed a young, alabaster-skinned family of four, all tow-headed and all painfully red on nearly every place not covered by a swimsuit. Their crisp clip of an accent gave them away as British, and they bustled about, setting up chairs and umbrellas. Despite their sunburns they all sported happy faces and bright eyes. It struck her that they were terribly out of place and exactly where they should be all at the same time, and she wished she had her camera to capture it. It would make a great addition to the hundreds of photos she’d already taken. In her heart she was convinced that the best ones would make a great compilation for a coffee table book. If
Terra Traveler
wasn’t interested, maybe Izzie could help her shop it around.

She was moving at a good pace, swift but relaxed, when a muscular, tawny boxer raced out in front of her in hard chase after a lime green tennis ball. Cornering it, he chomped down, then sped back down the beach. Longing welled up as she thought of Jonah. Izzie had graciously agreed to take him in until she came back, but Chloe wasn’t sure just how long that might be.
Maybe I could fly him down—

Her train of thought derailed as something powerful slammed into the back of her head.

“Ow!” she yelled and, grabbing her head, spun in the direction of the blow. A few feet away a brown football rolled sluggishly in the sand. She marched over, still rubbing the sore spot, and scooped up the ball.

“Are you okay?”

Shielding her eyes from the sun with her free hand, Chloe looked up to see a tall man, cotton tee shirt billowing in the wind, racing towards her. “Hey, are you okay?” he repeated, coming up short and spraying a cloud of sand over her feet. He ran a well-tanned hand through chestnut hair that spiked a little at the crown. “I told him,” he spluttered, nodding back up the beach towards a man behind him, “to wait till you’d gone a little farther.”

Chloe shook her head. “No worries,” she said casually, tossing him the football. It did sting, though, and she involuntarily scratched at the sore spot again. His eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened doubtfully.

“You sure?” he asked. Strong jaw line. Pronounced cheekbones. Mid-thirties looked good on him.

“It’s a football, not a baseball bat. I’m fine.”

From behind him the boxer cantered up, tail wagging furiously, and dropped the tennis ball at his feet. The man reached down to pat the dog’s flank, snatched up the ball and with a snap sent it hurtling back up the beach. The dog darted after it, chomping on it when it landed several feet away from the man’s friend. “Missed him,” he apologized, turning back to Chloe with an impish smile. “But I tried.”

“Is he yours?” Chloe said, nodding at the dog pounding down the sand.

“Nah. Zeus belongs to Mike.”

“He makes me miss mine back home.” She wasn’t sure why she said it. She wasn’t typically chatty with strangers, and it surprised her that she’d offered this up. But then again, it had been weeks since she had a conversation with anyone other than Ruby.

He hesitated a second, then thrust out his hand. “I’m Jack. Jack Collings.”

She was equally hesitant, slowly extending her own arm. “Chloe. McConnaughey.”

“Hey, you’re welcome to join us. Toss the ball to Zeus. Whack Mike in the head once or twice.” He spun the football in his hands and grinned. “It’ll make me feel better.”

She stopped feeling for a rising knot on her head, pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. “Join you, huh?” She eyed him suspiciously.

He cocked his head. “What?” he asked uncertainly, still smiling but eyebrows narrowing slightly, confusion clouding his face as she continued staring him down.             

“You know you could have just asked and saved me the migraine.”

Understanding flashed across his face. “Oh, hey, wait,” he laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “That is not my style. And I can’t imagine that would be an effective pick-up method.”

“No,” Chloe retorted, unable to keep her own smile from creeping outward. “I wouldn’t think so,” she finished, staring into the spirited green eyes that met an angular nose and thin lips reminiscent of that actor in
Sweet Home Alabama
.

Walk away,
a warning sang in her head.
Walk awaaaay.

“So, you’re, uh, a tourist?” he asked, apparently interpreting Chloe’s smile as an invitation to stick around.

“Sort of. Long term tourist, I guess you could say.”

“Me too. I’m going on six months. You?”

Why are you still standing here?
The voice asked. She ignored it. “Three weeks.”

“Well,” he said, flipping the football again. “If you’re gonna take off from home for a while, this is the perfect place to land. It’s a great place to escape from reality.”

Her stomach tightened. “Why do you say that?”

He shrugged. “Has been for me.”

The boxer loped up to her and dropped the ball on her shoe. “So,” he ventured, as she picked up the ball and fired it down the beach, “are you a professional beach bum or is there some job you’re playing hooky from?”

“I work for an online travel magazine,” she answered.

“You’re a writer.” He smiled appreciatively.

“Photographer. The writing’s just a necessary evil.”

“You know, this place has some of the best sunsets I’ve ever seen—” He stopped when she wrinkled her nose ever so slightly at the suggestion. “What? Sunsets too pedestrian?”

“What? No,” she started, a little embarrassed. But when his eyebrows shot up doubtfully, she continued, “It’s just that . . . it’s been done.”

“Well, if sunsets aren’t your thing, I might still have a few ideas. The local guys I know have shown me just about every inch of this island. If you wanted somebody to take you around . . .” His voice trailed off hopefully.

“Hey, are we done here?” bellowed Mike from down the beach.

“Hold up,” Jack barked back, turning his head to direct the sound, but never taking his gaze off Chloe.

“Sounds like you’re needed,” she said, gesturing toward Mike.

Jack shrugged. “He can wait. So what do you think?”

Say yes. Say no.
“Look, thanks, really, but . . . I don’t even know you, and besides . . .”

His smile turned up at the corners. It made him even cuter.
Darn it.

“Name’s Jack Collings—”

“So you said,” she interrupted good-naturedly.

“I’m a beach concierge over at the Southern Star Resort—that’s not my career by the way, it just pays the bills while I’m here. My friend is an idiot, and I have terrible ideas about how to pick up women.” His green eyes twinkled. “What else is there to know?”