Targeted (Callahan & McLane Book 4) (9 page)

10

“Howdy, neighbor.”

Ava glanced over and saw Cheryl Noble standing by the border of short bushes that separated their properties. Ava had just slammed her car door, her mind occupied with horror movies and masks. Cheryl in her funky boots, jeans, and sparkly teal sweater was a feast for her eyes. She’d been studying too many crime scene photos. Having Cheryl as a neighbor was Ava’s chance to escape into a girly world.

“Hey, Cheryl. Great sweater.”

“It’d be perfect with your coloring,” Cheryl returned. She was on a constant mission to get Ava to perk up her wardrobe. She’d already introduced some bright colors into Ava’s closet. The items made Ava smile when she looked at them on their hangers, but they rarely made it onto her body. They didn’t feel right for her job. But she was happy knowing the clothes were there if she and Mason went out to dinner.

“What’d you decide on the hotel ballroom?” Cheryl asked.

Ava’s heart sank. She’d promised Cheryl an answer yesterday. “I’m sorry, I haven’t even looked at it. I caught a heavy case.”

Cheryl put her hands on her hips and tipped her head at Ava. “Seriously. I’ve never had a client like you. Usually women can’t decide because they’re in love with too many locations. You don’t like anything and don’t make any effort to find something you do like.”

Cheryl’s frankness was part of why Ava admired her. “I know. I’m making your job difficult.”

“Do you
want
to get married?”

“Yes! That’s why I hired you. I’m not good at planning.”

“Or making decisions,” Cheryl added. “You won’t even pick a date.”

“I’m trying to keep the date flexible in case the location isn’t available.”

“Well, we need to find this dream location. What’s the holdup? You say you want to get married . . . what’s keeping you from moving forward?”

Ava felt as if Cheryl’s green eyes saw right into her brain. “I’m really sorry.” She looked away from the penetrating gaze. “I’ve been up since two. Can I email you later?”

“You say that when you want to avoid conversations, Ava.” Cheryl gave her a warm smile. “You don’t fool me, but you do have me stumped. I’ve never had such a reluctant bride.”

“I don’t want to waste your time—”

“Stop it.” The tall blonde held up her hand. “You’re not. You’re my friend and I
want
to do this. You need my help in the worst way. You’re my special project, and I’ve made it my personal mission to create your perfect day.”

Ava wanted to hug her. “You have more patience than I do, Cheryl.”

“That’s why we get along so well.”

“Say . . . I work with a great guy—”

Cheryl cut her off. “Tell you what. I’ll meet this
great guy
when you place a deposit on a venue.”

She has a point.

“I think you two will hit it off,” Ava said.

“If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that, I wouldn’t have to work.” Cheryl shook her head. “I swear each bride I’ve worked with has tried to hook me up with someone. Usually it’s their divorced and lonely father. I’ve had to make a policy of not accepting dates with relatives of my clients.”

“Zander is great. If I wasn’t with Mason—” Ava stopped, abruptly aware that she hadn’t been with Mason when she’d met Zander. There’d been no sparks. Instead she’d always regarded him with a brotherly affection. When she’d met Mason, she’d wanted to learn more about him even though it felt as if she’d known him forever; they’d been instantly comfortable in each other’s presence.

“You should see the look on your face right now,” Cheryl said. “You’re thinking about your man and it’s the reason I want to make your wedding perfect. You two are nuts about each other, and I’m so pea-green with envy, it’s clashing with my sweater.”

Ava had no answer for that.

“Go look at the hotel website I sent you and let me know
today
.”

“I’ll do it right now,” Ava promised as she said good-bye.

Her neighbor was awesome. She was friendly, blunt, and outgoing. The third day after Mason and Ava had moved into the old Tudor home, Cheryl had brought over red wine, white wine, beer, vodka, and a big container of homemade white chocolate cookies. “I didn’t know what the two of you liked, so I’ll let you choose. I figured I was safe unless you’re both alcoholics. In that case I’ll put the alcohol in my own cupboard and you can keep the cookies.”

She and Mason had reached for the red wine. “We’ll take the cookies, too,” Ava had stated. That evening the three of them finished the red wine, moved on to the white, and wiped out most of the cookies. Ava had promised herself she’d work to develop a relationship with the fun woman. She’d had several friendships fizzle away because she hadn’t put forth the effort. Cheryl was worth keeping.

After a few months in their home, Mason had said Cheryl had made the move as worthwhile as the house had. Ava agreed.

Bingo did an “I need to go out” dance as she stepped in the door, his toenails skittering on the wood floors. Ava tossed her bag on a chair and rubbed his head. His dog door had broken, and Mason had ordered a replacement. Bingo had stood at the boarded-up door, stared at it, and turned sad doggy eyes at the two of them, wondering why they were torturing him. “It’ll be here soon, boy,” Ava had promised.

He danced at her heels as she moved through the kitchen to the back door. He bolted as she opened it. “Jeez, poor guy,” she muttered as guilt flooded her. She watched him tear to the back fence and lower his nose to the ground, running back and forth along the fence behind the bushes and trees. The hair stood up on Ava’s neck.

I’ve never seen him do that.

After a few more sniffing passes along the back of the yard, Bingo seemed satisfied and lifted his leg toward his favorite tree. He trotted about the yard, doing his usual curious inspection. Ava watched him closely, looking for any other new behaviors. The dog was a good alert system. Bingo found a tennis ball and galloped back to the door, his tail wagging. He dropped it at her feet with an expectant look.

She grabbed the ball thrower to scoop up the drooly ball and hurled it toward the back of the yard.

He probably saw a squirrel near the back fence while we were gone.

Images from the Samuelson crime scene filled her mind. The impressions in the soft barkdust. Her own backyard was nearly three times the size and fully fenced. Mason had a deck on his list of home improvements, but for now they had a small concrete patio. Bingo dropped the ball and Ava threw it again, stepping off the concrete onto the grass. She slowly moved to the back of the lot. Their home had a wide curving area of barkdust along the back fence, full of big bushes and trees.

Ava walked carefully, studying the grass.
I just left a crime scene and now I’m paranoid in my own home.
She stepped into the bark and started peering behind bushes, fully aware of the weight of the weapon still holstered at her side. She spotted three dingy tennis balls but no footprints. Bingo rushed past her and grabbed one of the balls. With him at her heels, she walked the length of the fence. At the far corner she stopped, staring at the ground.
Footprints?
Mason could have made them weeks ago.

She took a deep breath.
I’m being ridiculous.

Was she? Last spring they’d had a break-in at Mason’s old home. Her sister and Jayne’s current boyfriend had been the guilty parties. She froze as she remembered that Jayne’s “field trip” had been yesterday.

Déjà vu?

She marched back to the house and went from room to room, checking closets and drawers but discovering nothing disturbed. Their security system was the best. Mason had installed it before they’d even moved into the house, but that didn’t mean someone hadn’t wandered through their backyard and peeked in windows. Mason had turned off the outdoor motion detector lights a month ago after nightly disturbances by raccoons and neighborhood cats. “We can rely on Bingo,” he’d said. “That dog acts like a horde of zombies is trying to break in when the UPS guy walks up the front steps.”

“I’m losing my mind,” Ava muttered. “No one has been in the house.” She sat down at her desk off the kitchen and fired up her laptop. She opened her email and clicked the hotel link Cheryl had sent. Ava scrolled through the images, unenthused about the gorgeous ballroom and pictures of lavish weddings. It was lovely, but not the right place for them. She didn’t even know how big a venue they needed. She and Mason had barely discussed a guest list, which, according to Cheryl, was one of the first things they needed to do.

She imagined a wedding ceremony with a few cops on one side and a few FBI agents on the other. It was a bit sad. Neither she nor Mason had much family to speak of. He had a brother on the other side of the state and a son away at college.

She had Jayne.

She couldn’t see Jayne standing beside her. She imagined the part of the ceremony where the bride hands her bouquet to her maid of honor, but when Ava turned, no one was standing there.

Emptiness swept through her, and she missed her mother. It’d been five years since her mother’s death. She would have loved Mason. He was smart, practical, egoless, and respectful. Everything she’d claimed Ava and Jayne’s father had not been. Ava’s father had never known they existed. He’d been married. After a short affair during which her mother discovered he wasn’t single, she’d left town. And then discovered she was pregnant. Pride and embarrassment had kept her from returning. Ava had searched for him after her mother’s death but come up empty. She suspected her mother had lied about his name to her and Jayne.

She focused on the pictures of the hotel ballroom. She listlessly flipped through them again. She tapped out a reply to Cheryl’s email, telling her it wasn’t the right venue for them, and that she and Mason would create a guest list by that weekend.

There. I put it in writing. Now I have to do it.

Another email flashed and Ava caught the name of Jayne’s counselor. She opened it and quickly scanned. Jayne’s trip to the mall and out to lunch yesterday had gone smoothly. Four residents and a counselor had gone on the three-hour trip and it had been considered a success.

Ava wondered what made a success.
No one got lost? No one had a meltdown?

She suspected Jayne would have wanted a drink with lunch but knew the center wouldn’t place the residents in temptation’s way on their first outing. They’d probably eaten somewhere like McDonald’s. What would Jayne have to say about the trip? Her sister knew how to behave so that her keepers would be happy and believe she was getting better.

Ava knew better. Jayne lied at all times. The best defense was to keep up her guard.

She closed the laptop with a sigh and headed for the coffeepot. She smiled as she turned on the shiny faucet at her new sink. At least the kitchen remodel was finished and gorgeous. The master bath’s lavender sink, tub, and toilet could wait until Jayne was finished at the rehab center.

If she ever finishes.

She dumped old coffee into the sink and watched it disappear, wondering if her money for Jayne’s treatment was doing the same thing.

11

M
icah was in invisible mode.

Not really. But he knew how to vanish and keep people from noticing him. It was a skill he’d perfected in case it was needed to save his life one day. When he walked down a street, no one’s gaze focused on him. If one did, it quickly bounced away as the person deemed him inconsequential. He liked it that way. Even his vehicle was nondescript, and he didn’t tailgate or speed. He was noticed only when he wanted to be noticed.

He pulled his car over to the curb, watching the man exit his vehicle and enter the coffee shop. He’d followed him here countless times and knew he’d get a venti black coffee. He’d even stood in the coffee line behind him, invisible, wondering if today would be the day he ordered something new. He never varied.

Some people were like that. And it could kill them one day.

Change patterns. Vary routines. Be unpredictable.

Don’t be the horror movie teenager who investigates the basement.

He loved horror movies. He studied them, rewriting them so the victims had a fighting chance. He also changed them so the villain always won in the end. The bad guy wouldn’t die because a teen got lucky or suddenly had a good idea; Micah liked to revise them to be true battles of strengths and smarts. This made the movies more balanced. He appreciated a fair fight. Where was the fun if the sides were unevenly matched?

The man stepped out of the shop, a venti cup in his hand, and got in his car. He didn’t even glance at his surroundings. Anyone could have stepped out and attacked him. He would have been helpless.

Micah shook his head as he took the time to scan his own surroundings. Rearview mirror. Side mirrors. Full turn of the head in every direction. He glanced in the backseat even though he’d checked before he got in the car and again when he’d pulled over near the coffee shop.

He couldn’t help himself. His doctors had told him it was part of his OCD and they could medicate most of it away. But he liked being on his toes and staying sharp. It was important. The same way it was important to always have a backup plan or two.

What if the power grid went down? What if there was an earthquake? Terrorists, both domestic and foreign, would love to see a city crumble, its people panicking. He wouldn’t panic; he had a plan.

He pulled away from the curb to follow the man’s vehicle. Micah assumed he was heading to work, but kept his attention focused in case of any changes. Sometimes there were errands or appointments.

Stupid time wasters. Why did people spend time to find the right brand of clothing or worry that their kitchen looked out of date? People should focus on the important things: a stable food source, a solid roof over their heads, and trustworthy transportation. Nothing else mattered. The important thing about a vehicle wasn’t its brand; it was its reliability. He always kept his gas tank above three-quarters. What if he had to leave town at a moment’s notice? He wouldn’t be slowed by something as mundane as filling his tank. If it was a widespread crisis, there could be long lines for gas or no gas available at all.

But it wouldn’t affect him.

His long-term plan was to live without a vehicle. Fuel wouldn’t last forever. He’d stashed a dirt bike to use less fuel and a regular bike for when it was appropriate. He’d briefly considered stealing a horse, but horses needed constant care. They couldn’t be hidden indefinitely in a shed. Instead he studied horses and believed he could raise livestock if he found himself in a future without power.

It would happen one day.

He had no doubts.

His arms started to shake and his anxiety spiked as he imagined that future world. His brain cast about for something to occupy and calm his mind. He mentally reviewed how to build a hutch for chickens to protect them from predators. He felt his breathing slow and his shakes recede. It was important. He couldn’t forget. Today the bombs could drop that would change their world forever. He wouldn’t be caught with his pants down.

When he was younger he’d recite the multiplication table when the anxiety hit. As he got older he’d begun to choose useful mental projects to focus his brain. The chicken coop. How to lay out a leach field. How to make cheese.

Ahead the man signaled and turned into the parking lot at his office.

He continued past, relieved that his quarry had made it to work safely for another day. Not that his job wasn’t without dangers. The man often came in contact with unsavory elements. It was how he’d met Micah.

He’d been grouped with the unsavory elements and been determined to prove to the man that he wasn’t one of them.

The man had seen he was different and accepted him.

He’d never felt that level of acceptance before, and the man had become a hero in his eyes. Most people wanted to change him. Medicate him. Send him to new doctors. Talk about him.

He just needed to be left alone. He could take care of himself.

But this man needed someone to look out for him. He was too caught up in his own world to watch over his shoulder. So Micah did it for him. Twenty-four-seven.

It’d been enlightening. A glimpse into a very private life. He’d seen things he shouldn’t have seen, learned secrets, and felt his power swell with the new knowledge. It’d fueled his desire to keep watching.

Some of his doctors would have told him the behavior was unhealthy. That he shouldn’t fixate on other people. But he was helping, doing good, being the superhero. Everyone knows superheroes are misunderstood. They break the law only when it’s for the good of the people. If he could protect this one important life, then it was all worth it.

He glanced at the time and knew where he’d find his friends.

Friends.

He knew they weren’t true friends. They listened to him and allowed him to hang around only because he shared his pot and cigarettes. He considered it a small price to pay to tap into their knowledge. Street kids were skilled at hiding and seeing things regular people did not. Need bread? They know which bakery window has a broken lock. Need fuel? They know where extra tanks of every type of fuel are stored in the city. Need sex? Need drugs? Need a weapon? They had the connections to get it all.

He siphoned their knowledge and they pretended to listen to his warnings about the future. He knew when his message reached some of them. Usually the females. They didn’t like the thought of an uncertain future and would latch on to whoever they thought would protect them. Some asked to see the place he’d prepared for an uncertain future, but he never took anyone there. People steal. People lie. People kill to get what they think they need. One look at his supplies and he’d be a marked man.

Several of the females had offered him sex in exchange for his protection. He’d refused. He had no need for sex. Another curiosity his doctors liked to explore and offered to medicate. Why fix something that didn’t bother him? To his horror they’d discussed it with his mother, along with his other treatments.

He’d raged when she’d brought it up.

She hadn’t mentioned it again.

He parked at a MAX station and changed his shoes and coat, throwing the others in his trunk. He preferred to wear the Converse with the holes when he hung out with the street kids. He kept a ratty camouflage-print coat in his car. It was thick and warm but stank to high hell. They were articles he knew people from the street wouldn’t try to steal from him.

Even if they did, he was prepared. He was never without a weapon handy.

It was important to dress and look like the other street kids. He’d studied them for a long time before making the subtle changes to fit in. In the end they’d approached him. He’d watched long enough to see what caught their interest. For several days he’d hung out near them with his cigarettes always handy, acting as if he didn’t have anywhere else to go and ignoring their stares. Curiosity had driven them his way. Pot and cigarettes kept them coming back.

They wanted to know where he slept at night, but he never told them. He lied, saying that he slept on a friend’s couch at night but had to be out of the apartment during the day. If they found out he went home to his mother’s house, they’d never speak to him again. He was careful to maintain his façade. When he needed his bed, he took the light rail, hopping off and on at multiple MAX stops, watching for followers, but they never tried to follow him. When he finally got off at the stop where he’d parked his car, he’d cut through the lot and circle the block, watching to see if he was followed. He didn’t go back to his car until he was positive he was alone.

Good habits.

He yanked a filthy cap onto his head and headed toward the MAX stop to wait for the train. The light rail system would speed him into the heart of the city, where he’d vanish for a few hours and hang with his
friends
. He’d be back in time to wait outside the man’s office building and follow him home.

Maybe he’d watch through the windows for a bit.

The last week had been exhausting and he wondered if his quarry would have anywhere he had to be tonight. He hoped not. He was tired and ready for a break.