Pitch Black (10 page)
A Concerned Citizen
Madison flipped the single sheet onto her desk and picked up the envelope. No return address. Buckeye postmark (hence the rapid delivery). Printed on plain paper by a computer printer. This was one of five letters about yesterday’s article. This one was the most well written. One had ranted in nearly unintelligible form. But they were all similar in sentiment. All without identification. All either unsigned, or signed with a righteous moniker.
It really pissed her off when people wanted to take a bold public stand hiding behind an anonymous name . . . and Jesus.
Even though newspaper policy was not to print anonymous letters to the editor, Madison was going to print all of them. The authors had unknowingly lightened her workload; she didn’t have to verify the identity of any of the senders.
She wondered briefly if she should have had reporter Judy Jenkins put her byline on the article. Maybe it wouldn’t have seemed like a frontal assault on the community if it had come from one of their own.
This problem was entirely new to Madison, speaking to an audience who actually knew her. She hadn’t realized how delicate her relationship with her readers could be. Too bad she hadn’t considered this before she published the article. This message was too important to let it get shot down just because nobody liked the messenger.
Judy had locked the front doors on her way out at five, after turning off the lights out in the front office. The building was empty. Madison was in her element: cocooned alone in her own little office, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights, the fan on her computer, and the rain drumming on the roof—with the print deadline clock ticking.
Undaunted by her unpopular status, she was doing her second front-page installment on the dangers of anabolic steroids. She was delaying sending it to press because she was waiting for a call from Zach Gilbert’s girlfriend, Julia.
Madison had received the e-mail at four o’clock this afternoon:
From: [email protected]
Subject: (none)
ms wade,
you told me to contact you if i have any information i’m using the school newspaper’s computer will call before 8 tonight
When Madison had first read it, she’d wanted to get up and dance a little jig around her desk. Julia Patterson, bless her heart, was coming through. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. Madison needed ammunition to counter the rash of crap she was going to publish in tomorrow’s “Letters to the Editor” column—which of course would be on page three, while her solidly researched article, complete with startling statistics concerning small towns and rural communities, would be on the front page under the banner.
Madison looked at the time on her computer. Eight-ten.
Come on Julia, don’t get cold feet.
Her cell phone rang. She snatched it up off the desk.
“Ethan Wade reporting as ordered.”
“No need to be a smart-ass. You’re ten minutes late.”
“I fell asleep watching TV.”
She responded with an appropriately skeptical grunt.
“Seriously, how long are you gonna make me do this?”
“Maybe forever. I like hearing your voice.”
“I feel like I’m on a leash.”
“Good.”
He groaned and hung up the phone.
Madison tossed her cell back on the desk. Grounding a kid who’d lived the life Ethan had seemed a little like closing the barn door after the cow was already out in the storm, but she had to do something. If she could only get him to open up and tell her what was going on.
With an exasperated sigh, she dragged her focus back to her work. Instead of finishing her article, she caught herself staring at her phone, urging it to ring. It was obvious that Julia was nervous about someone discovering she was talking about Zach’s doping. She’d used the school computer and the newspaper’s e-mail account; her name wasn’t anywhere on that e-mail. In their conversation on the day of Zach’s funeral, Madison had assured Julia that if she shared information, she would remain protected, anonymous . . . and much more deserving of it than those asses who wrote those letters.
At eight-thirty, Madison gave up waiting and finished typing her article. She’d wanted to be able to print that she was close to confirming the source of the steroids. But that would have to wait. After she did get the information, there would still be fact-checking and confirmation. But with a lead from Julia, she’d be that much closer to discovering where those drugs came from—be it Internet, mail order, or Joe Blow who lived on Main Street.
At eight-forty-five Madison picked up her jacket and favorite Kenneth Cole tote—Ethan had saved his dog-walking earnings and given it to her last Christmas—and then turned off her office lights. The streetlights would be shining through the large plate-glass windows on the front of the building, so she didn’t have to worry about breaking her neck on the way out.
After locking the door to her office—a habit even living in this sleepy town couldn’t break after years of protecting sources and guarding information—she turned to head toward the front of the building. She shrugged into her jacket as she juggled her tote. The tap of her heels on the hardwood floor echoed off the empty desks and silent electronic equipment.
As she straightened the collar of her jacket, she looked up and froze in mid-step. There, silhouetted by the streetlight, stood a tall figure against the glass door. He was broad shouldered and it appeared he had on a sweatshirt with the hood up. He remained so motionless that for a moment Madison thought perhaps it was a trick of light and shadow, a product of her eyes adjusting from the bright light of her office. But that thought was simply an attempt by her mind to overcome fear. The man was real—and he wasn’t leaving.
Keeping her gaze on the figure, she took a slow step backward, gradually reaching inside her tote for her cell phone. She couldn’t explain why she moved with the slow caution of a person faced with a snake coiled to strike. Stealthy movements weren’t likely to alter the outcome of whatever was in play here.
She forced herself to breathe as she groped in the deep tote for her phone, thankful for the fifteen feet and a locked door between her and whoever it was out there. Finally her fumbling fingers located the phone. She employed the same slow, steady movement in pulling it out and flipping it open, not daring to take her eyes away from the front door. She half-expected the man to come crashing through, even though logic told her that if that had been his plan, he’d have done it already.
Logic didn’t slow her racing heart or put spit back in her dry mouth. Her fingers were trembling so badly she had to look at her phone in order to dial 911. As she pressed send, she looked back up at the door.
The man was gone.
She sidled closer to the windows, but didn’t see him on the nearby sidewalk.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
She was at a loss. What was she going to say,
Someone was looking in the window of a downtown storefront
? The guy probably hadn’t even seen her inside; nobody was ever here this time of night. Then she realized that maybe he wasn’t even facing this way. With the light directly behind him, he could as easily have been facing the street; maybe he’d ducked into the recessed door opening to get out of the rain.
“I’m sorry. No emergency. I just got a little spooked.”
“Where are you? Do you want an officer dispatched?”
“No. No, everything’s fine.” Her car was only halfway down the block. There wasn’t even an alley for someone to hide in between here and there. And Killroy’s Bar on the corner was still open; no doubt people were coming and going. “Thank you.” She disconnected.
She’d walked truly dangerous city streets in the dark more times than she could count—investigating things that only transpired on shadowy streets in the dead of night. She was ashamed of her ridiculous overreaction to this shadow outside her front door—in
Buckeye,
for crying out loud.
Grabbing an umbrella from the bucket they kept by the door for short runs to the bank and such, she unlocked the front door and slipped out. She took a moment to survey the street, confirming it was empty, before she turned her back and put her key in the lock.
Feeling more like herself and back in control, she opened the umbrella and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She hurried toward her car, telling herself she was rushing only because of the rain.
When she stepped off the curb beside her car, she found herself in ankle-deep water.
“Crap.” She shook off her shoe and moved to the driver’s door. As she reached for the door handle, she noticed her front tire was completely flat. “Uuggh!”
A hand landed on her shoulder. “Hey.”
With a screech, she swung the open umbrella around. It bounced ineffectively off her attacker and landed on the wet pavement, spinning like a top. She had her foot drawn back when the voice penetrated her adrenaline-fueled reaction.
“Hold on, Maddie! It’s me.” Gabe had her by the shoulders, trying to keep her out of striking distance.
“What the hell is wrong with you!” she shouted. “You should know better than to sneak up on a woman like that.” Her face burned from the burst of fear, and then anger. The cold rain drenching her now was a welcome relief.
Gabe bent over and picked up her umbrella, which had stopped spinning and sat upside down collecting rainwater. He shook it out before he held it over her head. “Sorry. I forgot you’re not used to our small town ways.”
That remark shot through her like a fiery arrow. “Seriously! You don’t do that
ever.
Didn’t they teach you anything in police school? God!” She swiped the rain from her face.
After his last comment, there was no way she was admitting to being on edge because she’d been creeped out by an innocent pedestrian trying to shield himself from the downpour in the newspaper office’s entry.
She took a couple of deep breaths to dissipate the adrenaline rush.
“I
am
sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Won’t happen again.”
“If it does, you’d better guard your nuts.”
He stood there laughing with the rain running off the end of his nose. She was torn between throttling him and kissing him.
“I just came out of Killroy’s”—he lifted his chin over his left shoulder to indicate the bar cattycorner across the street—“and I saw you leave the office.”
She took pity on him, even though her heart was still racing from the start he’d given her, and stepped closer, lifting the umbrella over his head.
“Out drinking on a Thursday night?” she asked.
“Eating. I’m a horrible cook and Killroy’s has great chili.”
“Hmmm, maybe I’ll pick some up to go. I’m sure Ethan’s starved—even though he ate dinner at six-thirty. That is”—she looked down at her flat tire—“after I put on the spare.”
His gaze followed hers. He made a
tsk
ing sound. “Bad night for a flat. Want me to hold the umbrella over you while you change it?”
“How chivalrous.”
“I know how you Yankee city girls are . . . independent and all. Don’t want to piss you off.”
“Independent, not stupid. I’ll have you know, I’ve never turned up my nose at the idea of letting a man change a tire or carry heavy objects for me.”
“I see, then. You want your cake and eat it, too.”
“And why wouldn’t I?”
With a crooked smile, he said, “Indeed.” After a pause that Madison couldn’t quite read, he said, “How about I drive you home instead. It’s supposed to stop raining around midnight. I can pick you up in the morning, then change the tire in dry daylight.”
She sure as hell didn’t want to kneel in that puddle and change the tire. It didn’t seem fair to ask him to either. “Okay.”
“You want to pick up that chili?”
“Not really. I’m too tired to eat—and Ethan can snack on a whole ham or something.”
He chuckled. “My truck’s around the corner.” He put his arm around her as they huddled side by side under the umbrella and walked to his Jeep.
She tried not to like the feel of him pressed against her side or the gentle weight of his hand on her shoulder. She reminded herself that this was a small town and there was an ongoing criminal investigation that involved her son.
He opened the door for her to slide into the passenger seat. Then he leaned in, across her, and reached behind the console between the bucket seats. His chest was intriguingly close to her face. His body gave off comforting warmth and the clean smell of Dial soap rose from the opening in his jacket. She caught herself drawing in a very deep breath.
When he pulled back, he handed her a towel. “Here, you can dry off a little.”
She took it and dabbed her face. As she did, she wondered if the rain had turned her mascara into raccoon eyes.
Gabe closed her door, then went around and got in the other side. He collapsed the umbrella and put it behind her seat.
She handed him the towel. “Looks like you could use this, too.”
She liked the careless way he ran the towel over his hair and face; an utterly masculine move.
“I appreciate the lift,” she said.
He started the truck. “My pleasure.”
There was just something about the way he said that phrase to her that made her all warm inside.
Her mother’s voice rushed forward from her memory, “Ah, your daddy, he’s such a sweet talker.” There had been an almost dreamlike quality in the way her mother had always said that phrase—and it usually came up after her father had disappointed them once again. Madison had always wondered if perhaps her father had hypnotized her mother, using his love and his voice to get her to forgive anything he did.
Now she could see how easily it could happen. Her own good sense told her she should put as much space between them as possible—especially until she uncovered exactly what was going on with Ethan.
They drove out of town in silence, the steady thump of the windshield wipers and the patter of raindrops the only sound. Their lunchtime vacation from reality was over. Now silence was the best way to avoid all of the unpleasant subjects that stood between them.
