She Can Hide (She Can Series) (13 page)

Ethan shifted into park. “I’ll go in and see if I can find anything out from the clerk.”

“Wait.” She scrutinized his trimmed black hair and cleanly shaven jaw. Though his casual sweater was one size too large and bulky, it still didn’t completely conceal the bulge at his right hip. But it was his shrewd eyes that gave him away. “You look like a cop.”

“I am a cop.”

Abby looked back at the guy in the office. “He has tattoos on his face.”

Ethan raised a hand, palm up. “Hey, I don’t judge people by the way they look.”

“But he might.” She took off the cap and fluffed her hair. “Let me go in.”

“It’s not safe,” Ethan protested, those sharp eyes narrowing.

“I thought you didn’t judge people by their looks.”

His eyes heated. “There are exceptions to every rule. Your safety is more important than political correctness or good manners.”

“You’ll be sitting right here, watching.” Abby tilted her head toward the door. “I doubt that glass is bulletproof.”

Ethan leaned back. His fingers drummed on his thigh. “OK, but I still don’t like it.”

Neither did Abby. But if she lost momentum, she might not be able to gather the courage to keep moving forward. Returning to her habitual prey-mode would be too easy. No more running. No more hiding. That was her new mantra.

“Here, you can show him this.” Ethan handed her a snapshot. “Mrs. Faulkner gave it to me. No love lost there.”

“I guess not.” Faulkner grinned at the camera. The desire to rip the photo into shreds burned hot, but Abby made herself take it. She couldn’t very well use the mug shot they’d brought along.

“Stay in front of the door, in my direct line of sight.” Ethan pulled his handgun free of its holster and rested it across his leg.

Abby suppressed the fear rising in her esophagus. She needed to do this. She took a sip of water to wash the acid from her throat. Getting out of the pickup, she adjusted her jacket hem and pushed open the glass door. A bell tied to the inside handle jingled. The man looked up at her. Thick arms crossed his chest, mirroring Ethan’s stubborn and reluctant posture. She’d made the right call. Ethan wouldn’t have gotten anything out of this guy.

He scowled at her. The black scorpion inked on his temple wrinkled, making the tail wrapped around his left eye twitch.

How to proceed?

For starters, she should probably stop staring at his tattoo.

She blinked and gave him a weak smile. His scowl deepened. She guessed she didn’t look like the usual clientele, and there was no way she could pull off the femme fatale thing, especially not dressed like she’d just stepped out of an L. L. Bean catalog. Could she be Faulkner’s sister? No. No one would believe they were related. But good girls fell for bad boys all the time.

She pulled the snapshot of Faulkner out of her purse. “I’m looking for my boyfriend.” She wanted to vomit as she said it. “He was supposed to call me.…” She let the words trickle off.

His gaze dropped to the photo. His facial expression didn’t change, but recognition flickered in his eyes. “Haven’t seen him.”

Oh yes he had. After eight years of teaching high school, Abby could spot a liar from fifty feet away.

She squeezed her eyes. Moisture gathered in the corners. She tried to look desperate. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much of a stretch. “I’m really worried about him. He would never ignore my calls.”

Big man’s nose twitched as if he was trying not to laugh out loud. Clearly, he had no trouble believing Faulkner would ignore a girlfriend’s calls. Abby tried to look even more wretched. She sniffed. “Are you sure?”

He sighed and looked again. “He might look familiar.”

“Oh my God, really? If you could remember where you’ve seen him, I’d be grateful.” Abby put the photo back into her purse and pulled out three twenties. She slid the bills across the counter.

Big man didn’t hesitate. He swiped the money and stuffed it into the chest pocket of his flannel shirt. “He’s in room 27, but I haven’t seen him today.”

“Thank you so much.” Abby smiled and walked out. She got back into the car, conflicting nerves roiling in her belly. “He’s here. Number 27.”

Ethan’s brows lifted in surprise. “Nice work.”

“Thanks.” Her mission had been successful, but now she had to face Faulkner. Her heart stuttered for a couple of beats. She inhaled deeply and held the breath in her lungs for a few seconds before letting it slide out through her nose.

Ethan reached for her hand. “It’s OK. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Damn it. Abby believed him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Unit 27 was at the other end of the property. Ethan surveyed the empty parking lot. Were the other units occupied? He drove over but parked a few units away. In case Faulkner was inside, Ethan didn’t want him to have a clear view of the truck—and Abby.

On reflex, Ethan checked the weapon at his hip. “His mother said he was driving an old white Camaro, so it looks like he’s not here. I’ll just knock on the door to make sure. I want you to stay in the car. Keep your head down and the doors locked.”

Abby opened her mouth.

Ethan cut off her protest. “It’s not safe.” He touched her forearm. “Plus, if he sees you, he might run.”

“You’re right. I wasn’t going to argue. I was going to say be careful. Honestly, I doubt I could face him again.” She sighed. Relief or regret? Just coming down here and facing the prosecutor proved Abby’s courage, but Ethan had no doubt fear pulsed through Abby. The man who had terrorized her was staying twenty feet away.

“You shouldn’t have to.” Ethan squeezed her hand. It was steady. Amazing. “Do you want me to drop you at the diner down the road while I talk to him?”

“No. He’s probably not here anyway.” She took her cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll have 911 ready to dial, just in case.”

“OK.” Ethan unzipped his jacket for access to his gun and got out of the car. He pointed at the door locks and waited for the click.

A few hundred yards down the road, they’d passed a road crew patching potholes. The smell of burning tar carried on the
cold air. He approached door number 27. Stepping up onto the concrete walkway that fronted the building, he passed into the shade of the roof overhang. Without the sunlight on his back, the temperature dropped to butt-numbing. He tried to peer through the window, but the curtains were drawn. Standing to one side, he tilted his head and listened for a minute. When he heard no sounds from inside the unit, he tapped on the door.

No response. Ethan knocked again. All he heard was the
swish
of traffic on the highway. A tractor-trailer clattered past.

“Zeke? Zeke Faulkner.” He probably wasn’t here. Ethan tried one last time. He pounded on the door with a fist. The weak latch gave. The door eased open an inch. Sweat broke out on Ethan’s back, and the hair on his nape lifted in alert. He pulled his gun, stepped behind the jamb, and nudged the door with a fingertip. A foul and distinctive stench wafted out of the room.

Shit.

The room was dark. His eyes probed the shadows. Nothing other than the usual motel fixtures. A duffel bag sat on the dresser, open. A shape lay on the bed.

Leading with his weapon, Ethan side-stepped into the room. He swept the gun around, but the space was empty.

Except for what was left of Zeke Faulkner, but he was no longer a threat.

At least Ethan was pretty sure the body on the bed was Faulkner. From the smell and the color of his skin, he’d been dead at least a day. A clear plastic bag covered his face, secured at the neck with duct tape. Under the plastic, his face was distorted and purple. His eyes bulged, and his black tongue protruded. Ethan looked away from his face. The body was dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a black hoodie. The sleeves and the pants’ legs were pulled up slightly. Plastic zip ties bound his hands and ankles. He’d fought enough for the binds to have cut into his flesh, but there was no other blood on his body. The room was clean for a violent murder scene. The lamps were upright. No other signs of a struggle.

Either Zeke had known his attacker, the killer had incapacitated him immediately, or there’d been more than one assailant.

Not touching anything, Ethan squatted and checked under the bed. The bathroom was empty too. The sunshine seemed brighter when he went back outside.

A frigid gust kicked a plastic bag across the parking lot. Ethan sucked in a great big lungful of not quite fresh air. After the death-stench in the motel room, he welcomed the harsh smell of burnt tar.

Abby sat up in the passenger seat. She took one look at his face and paled. She got out of the truck. “What happened?”

She rose on her toes and craned her neck to look over his shoulder.

“Don’t.” He moved in front of her to block her view. “He’s dead.”

Abby had enough baggage. She didn’t need to carry the grotesque sight of a suffocated man in her head. Ethan pulled out his cell phone and called the local police.

Abby waited until he disconnected the call. “How?” Her gaze searched his face. She wrinkled her nose. “Fight, gunshot, overdose?”

Ethan stayed downwind. Nothing short of double showers would erase the smell from his skin. “Oh no. This was definitely murder.”

By the setup of the scene, it was a particularly vicious, cold, and methodical killing. Actually, the word in Ethan’s mind was
execution
.

Faulkner was dead. Murdered.

Abby sat sideways on the edge of the passenger seat. Her feet rested on the running board. Standing next to the open door of his pickup, Ethan called his boss and reported in. Every time the wind shifted, the putrid smell on him wafted toward her.

Ethan lowered his phone and shoved it in his jacket pocket. Frustration brightened his eyes.

“Who would kill him?” This morning, she’d been afraid of seeing Faulkner. Now she was more frightened. How would she ever know if he was the one who’d poisoned her?

“He wasn’t exactly a pillar of the community,” Ethan said. “I looked up his official arrest record yesterday. Besides his conviction for kidnapping you, his arrest record was long and distinguished: couple of misdemeanor possession charges for marijuana, drunk and disorderly, simple assault, resisting arrest, etcetera. Since getting out of prison two weeks ago, he got involved in a lawsuit against the county over the disallowed evidence in his trial, and he ripped off his own mother. Who knows what else he did?”

Sirens announced the arrival of the local police. Abby was grateful that Ethan handled them, showing his badge and explaining why they’d come to talk to Faulkner. Abby didn’t have much of a statement, which suited her just fine.

Despite the freezing temperature, she kept the pickup door open and watched the activity. Several more cars arrived, including the medical examiner. Ethan moved amongst the cops, but he always seemed to have her in his view. His concern warmed her.

What did Faulkner’s death mean? Was he involved with other criminal behavior? Did his murder have anything to do with her case? And now that he was dead, how would she ever find out what had happened?

Too many questions without answers reeled in her belly. The smell of melted tar added to her nausea.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed, an hour, maybe two, before Ethan came back to her side. “We can leave. They’ll call us if they need anything else, and the detective is going to send a copy of your kidnapping case file to me.”

He slid into the driver’s seat, rolled down the window, and blasted the heat. “I’m sorry about the smell.”

Abby closed her door. “It’s not that bad,” she lied.

He snorted but didn’t argue.

“Faulkner’s car is behind the Dumpsters.” He backed out of the parking space.

“Why would he put it there?”

“Maybe he didn’t want anyone to know where he was, or maybe the guy who killed him moved the car so it would look like Faulkner wasn’t in the room.” Ethan drove out of the lot onto the highway. A mile down the road, he pulled into a gas station and parked next to the restroom. He grabbed a gym bag from behind his seat. “Lock the door. I’ll be right back.”

When he came out, he was wearing sweatpants and a snug T-shirt. He locked his odorous clothes and leather jacket in a storage bin in the pickup bed before getting behind the wheel. He smelled much, much better.

His next stop was a fast-food joint. He followed the arrows to the drive-through window. “What do you want?”

“How can you be hungry?”

He shrugged. “We missed lunch, and the drive home is two and a half hours.” He ordered a burger, large fries, and a Coke.

The smell of hot grease drifted in the window. Abby’s stomach growled. She leaned across the cab. “Make that two of everything.”

They ate in the parking lot. Abby scarfed the burger down embarrassingly fast. Ethan took the Atlantic City Expressway headed west. He had the window cracked. The blasting heat couldn’t counter the freezing air whipping around the cab.

Sipping the remains of her icy soda, she shuddered hard. “Can we close the window?”

“Are you sure?” Ethan glanced over. “I smell pretty bad.”

“I don’t smell it at all now, and you have to be freezing.” Not that she minded what he was wearing. The snug T-shirt outlined defined biceps and shoulders but was hardly winter wear.

“The odor must be imbedded in my sinuses.” He raised the window.

“Thanks.”

The sign for the Route 206 exit passed by the window. Abby sat up straighter. The greasy food in her belly did a cartwheel.

“Get off here.” The words were out before she could stop them. Why did she want to torture herself?

Ethan exited without questioning. She directed him through more turns onto a long dirt road. They passed rows of blueberry bushes, winter-barren and scraggly in the sandy soil. It had been summer then. If it had been winter, she would have died of exposure. Gravel and sand crunched under the tires as the road cut through a patch of woods and emerged into a clearing. In the center was a partially collapsed house.

A strange detachment filled Abby. “Can you drive around back?”

The pickup bumped along the weedy earth. Behind the house, Ethan drew a sharp breath as he parked the truck. Just
ahead was the well where Faulkner had kept her prisoner. She stared out the windshield, her mind sucked back through the black hole of time. Fear enveloped her as if she were back in the well all over again. She could see nothing but darkness. The sound of wind was muffled overhead. Had she been more afraid
of what Faulkner would do to her when he came back? Or that he never returned?

“Abby?”

She startled.

Ethan was shaking her arm. His worried gaze searched her face. “Are you all right?”

She couldn’t answer. The air felt hot and thick. Her breathing quickened. Her hand found the door release, and she stumbled out of the truck. Cold air, ripe with the scent of pine, washed over her. She leaned on her knees, gulped, and stared at the remnants of the well. Tree trunks swirled around her at dizzying speed. “They filled it in.”

The stone circle was still visible, but someone had dumped a few tons of dirt into the hole since her kidnapping.

“That’s where he kept you?” Ethan was next to her.

“Yes. It was about thirty feet deep. He covered the top with a few sheets of plywood.” She raised her head. The trees had stopped spinning. “I don’t know why we’re here.”

Ethan moved closer. He grasped her elbow and pulled her body straight. His arm came around her body. How could he be so warm? The outside temperature was in the midthirties, and he was in short sleeves. Abby was zipped into a down jacket and freezing to her bones. Shivers wracked her body.

He guided her back to the truck. He got behind the wheel and slid across the bench seat. Wrapping both arms around her, he drew her into a full embrace. Heat blasted from the vents, but it was Ethan’s body that provided Abby with the warmth she sought.

She rested her head against his shoulder. “There was a little bit of water in the bottom. That’s what kept me alive, plus the warm nights. It was summer.”

His arms tightened around her. Her usual reaction when panic struck was to withdraw, but with Ethan, she couldn’t get close enough. The feeling overwhelmed the anxiety rushing through her veins. Nearly frantic to touch more of him, she unzipped her jacket and pressed her body to his. Ethan worked his hands around, stroking her back through her sweater. He scooted closer and drew her onto his lap, as if he knew exactly what she needed: full body contact.

Curled in his arms, her heart rate slowed, and her lungs stopped heaving. She lifted her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He rested his chin on the top of her head.

“I don’t know what made me want to come here.”

“Faulkner is behind you now. Maybe you needed to put this memory in your past as well.” Ethan put a finger under her chin and tipped her face up. “Start looking toward your future.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing when I moved to Westbury.”

His eyes darkened. “Burying your past isn’t the same as accepting and moving past it.”

“The future is a moving target right now.” Abby licked her lips.

Ethan ducked his head. Soft and warm, his lips touched hers. Despite her surprise, it was Abby who took the kiss deeper, opening her mouth and welcoming him inside.

“More.” Her hands clutched at his arms. Heat shimmered along her skin and bloomed deep in her belly.

“Shh.” The fingers on her chin opened, cupping her jaw and angling her face. His tongue slid past her lips and explored her mouth with a thorough gentleness she imagined being extended to the rest of her body.