The Departed (12 page)

* * *

NORMALLY, Mark would have felt like bolting. He saw something ugly and evil in Brendan’s eyes and it was more than just anger—he knew. Somehow Brendan was piecing things together and he was piecing them together in a way that involved Mark, even though Mark hadn’t really done much. Except stay out of the woman’s way.

That was enough for Brendan, though—people who might fuck with his plans were to be stopped, period. Mark hadn’t stopped the woman, and if Brendan discovered Mark’s part in this? Then Mark was due to get royally fucked over.

He could see the suspicion there, the wondering, the doubt…all of that simmering along with the rage. But Mark also saw something else.

Brendan was afraid.

For some reason that Mark wasn’t going to look at too closely, that gave him some strength—enough strength to meet Brendan’s gaze and not look away as Brendan asked, “So the FBI, then? Could they find anything?”

His gut clenched even thinking about that. The fucking FBI? “FBI—shit.” He passed a hand over his mouth and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t
know
?” Beau shouted, slamming his fist into the steering wheel. “You’re the fucking hacker genius, aren’t you? Can they find the shit or not? What do you mean by
I don’t know
?”

“I mean I don’t
know
,” Mark bit off. “It’s not like I’ve ever been into the fucking FBI headquarters. Contrary to what you might think, Sherlock, I really have no idea what they are capable of.” He collapsed back against the seat, all too aware that they were staring at him. Watching. All too aware of the doubt, the growing distrust and anger in their eyes.

Fear was an ugly, rasping whisper in the back of his mind. Instinct screamed at him to run…run hard, run fast. But the last thing he needed to do was draw their attention like that.

Especially when he didn’t have a place to run
to
. Especially when he had nobody to trust.

“Dude. There she is.” Kyle punched him in the arm and leaned over, staring out through the window.

Mark turned his head and found himself staring at the woman, watching as she lugged a suitcase out of the resort. Leaving—she wasn’t leaving, was she? No. Shit, no. She couldn’t leave—

The air in his lungs felt like it was disappearing, being squeezed out of him by some giant fist. “You think she’s leaving?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Shit, she
can’t
,” Kyle said, shaking his head. “She’s, like, got to be a material witness or something, I’d think.”

Or something…

Something. Shit. She couldn’t leave. If he wanted to talk to anybody, maybe the first person he should try talking to was her. Half the cops around here were too busy kissing Brendan’s ass—or his father’s ass. But that woman…somehow…she had connections or something.

Yeah.

She
was the one he needed to talk to—he hadn’t missed the look that had passed between her and that mean-looking dude yesterday. Either she’d brought him with her or she’d called him here or something. If she left…

Keeping his voice bored and easy, he looked away from her and stared at the back of the seat in front of him. “You know, for the hotshot forensics expert, you aren’t showing a lot of smarts.” He shoved Kyle back. “People can still
see
in here, you know. Don’t go staring at her so fucking hard, dumb-ass.”

Kyle shoved back but settled in the seat. “Why the hell not? Everybody around here stares at everybody else—and she’s
new
.”

“You still don’t want anybody noticing you doing anything different,” Mark muttered. Then he leaned forward, watching as Beau kept shooting glances out the window toward the lady. “We picking up the others or what? I ain’t got all day. Dad’s riding my ass and he’ll be calling me in an hour or so.”

“Why?” Brendan twisted around and looked at him, his eyes cold and hard.

“Because of this shit.” Mark jerked a shoulder in a shrug. “You know how he is. He’s going to want to check up on me nonstop and he already told me he wants me home by three. If I’m not, he’ll be hounding me until I get there.”

It was a bald-faced lie but to his surprise, he managed to get it out without stuttering. His dad had been surprisingly calm about things when he came to the station the day before. When Mark had babbled an apology, he had just said, in that easy, quiet voice, “Now, Mark, it’s okay. It’s not like I think you’d ever have anything to do with this.”

That solid, simple faith had all but gutted him.

“Shit, just blow him off,” Kyle said.

Mark opened his mouth to answer but Brendan beat him to it. “Fuck, Kyle, get your head out of your ass. This isn’t the time for any of us to change how we do things. Mark’s the ‘good’ boy,” Brendan said, his voice heavy with mockery. “If he doesn’t show up, what do you think his dad is going to do? He’s going to fucking call the cops. And what’s
that
going to do?”

Mark slumped back in his seat, the adrenaline draining out of him, his heart banging erratically against his ribs.

“Mark, we all need to get together and talk, though.” Brendan stared at him in the mirror and, try as he might, Mark couldn’t look away. “Maybe you should see if you can come over tonight.”

Mark gave him a strained smile. “I’ll see what I can do. But you know how my folks are about Saturdays and shit. I’m supposed to be at church bright and early. Maybe next week.”

“It could be too late then. We all got to do some talking.”

“Then we try to meet and do it tomorrow,” Mark said, his voice flat. There was no fucking way he was putting himself in Brendan’s hands for the night. No fucking way. “I’m not pissing my dad off, upsetting my mom, all because you got your panties in a twist, Brendan. Deal with it.”

Brendan’s eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he turned around in the seat, staring at Mark. “What the fuck did you say?”

“You heard me.” This time, his voice shook a little, but he’d be damned if he backed down. Where in the hell this inner strength had come from, he didn’t know, but he knew one thing—Brendan was scared. And if Brendan was scared, he was going to try
fixing
things. But Brendan’s fixes were bad for others. Brendan’s fixes involved things like killing Tristan.

Shit. Shit. And fuck.

No way.

And for some inexplicable reason, a strange sense of peace washed over him, flooding him with not just confidence but resolution, as he met Brendan’s gaze and held it.

He knew what he was going to do once he got home, too. He was going to try to find that woman—see if she had left the hotel, left town. If she hadn’t left town, he’d be able to find her. If he couldn’t find her, he’d just go to the police. Or maybe Luther. Luther would know what to do.

One thing was damn certain—Mark was
not
going to spend the rest of his life like he’d spent the last few months.

No way.

TAYLOR had two stops that morning. The first was easy. It was the florist shop where Leon Beard worked. He was just curious about the man’s rather violent reaction—though, granted, most people wouldn’t be pleased to hear their grandkid had to talk to the cops.

But it wasn’t like Brendan had been
arrested
, or even questioned. He had to give a statement, something that should have been expected, considering the circumstances.

He might have even just ignored the old man, but for some reason, Beard made his skin crawl and his instincts scream. He couldn’t rightly say he’d ever spent five seconds near the guy before and it was possible he’d imagined it. Possible. Not likely. Taylor didn’t imagine much.

So he’d swing by the florist shop while he waited for Dez to emerge from her cave. She was his second stop. And if he knew her at all, she’d zero in on the one place where she could find caffeine and calories.

The florist shop was a profusion of autumn colors, pumpkins, and, perhaps not surprisingly, early Christmas décor. It was quiet, as quiet as a tomb, he thought. No music played; nobody greeted him as he came in. Beard’s Floral was the only florist in town so they could be lousy with the customer service, he supposed. And small towns were still small towns. They got used to things and didn’t much care for change.

But the man could say
hello
.

Beard sat behind the desk and, as Taylor approached, he flicked him one glance and then went back to his book. If he’d been there to buy flowers, he would have left. Simple as that. As it was, he veered off, taking his time to pretend to shop around. Along one wall, there was a display of framed artwork of the hotel. Another wall featured crosses. There was a profusion of angels, little cherubs that gazed innocently at nothing. And flowers, mustn’t forget the flowers.

As he circled through the store and finally came to a stop near the desk, he found Beard watching him now.

“Anything I can help you find?”

“No. I would like to send some flowers, though.” Taylor didn’t need to speak with the man about the boy to get a feel for him. He already knew what he needed to know—he didn’t like Leon Beard. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t like him.

“Who will they be for?” Beard reached for a notepad by his cash register.

“A young woman at the hospital.” Taylor paused, watched as the man’s mouth tightened. “Poor kid.”

Something ugly flashed through Beard’s eyes. Oh, yeah. It was official. He didn’t like this man.

It took fifteen minutes to finish up. And as he left, he decided the timing was about perfect. He watched as a familiar car pulled onto Main Street. He wasn’t the least bit surprised to see her. She wouldn’t be able to resist the call of caffeine—or junk food—for too long.

* * *

IT was midmorning when she hunkered down in a booth at Denny’s, absolutely delighted to find the chain restaurant in the little town. Small towns like this, they could be hit or miss on restaurants; she knew that for a fact. Denny’s, though, she could trust. She could trust them to give her pancakes and eggs and bacon. And coffee. Couldn’t forget the coffee.

She had her hands curled around her first cup and it smelled so good, Dez almost whimpered just at the scent of it. Bringing it up to her nose, she breathed it in and sighed, letting the warmth of the mug warm her hands. She wished it would do the same for her entire body.

The waitress standing by the table laughed. “Honey, you look like you haven’t seen a decent cup of coffee in a month.”

“You’re not far off,” Dez muttered, taking a sip. It was strong—strong enough to make a dead man’s heart beat, or close. She groaned in satisfaction. She took another sip and then put the cup down, rubbing her hands together. The waitress was still lingering there, watching her, her eyes bright with a look Dez recognized all too well.

Curiosity.

“You’re the one who found that girl.”

Dez didn’t respond. She hadn’t even spoken to the police yet and if she said a damn thing to anybody before she gave a statement…no. Sighing, she lowered her gaze to the coffee and reached for the creamer.

“You don’t want to talk about it.”

Brilliant observation
. She smirked a little and glanced up, cocked a brow.

“How did you…well, I guess you’re not going to say anything.” Then the waitress sighed. “I just get sick thinking about it. It’s all over town. Not that French Lick is a big town anyway, you know? But everybody is talking about it. Nobody can understand how she got in there, nobody is talking…did she fall?”

Dez looked away. Fall? No. Ivy hadn’t
fallen
in there, but she couldn’t exactly point that out. Rubbing her temple, she took a deep breath and then looked at the waitress. “I can’t talk about this. I’m sorry, but…”

A gust of cool air whipped through the restaurant and, absently, she glanced up. She wasn’t the only one. She also wasn’t the only one staring as Taylor Jones strode inside.

Dropping her head into her hand, she muttered, “How in the hell?”

“Taylor…I don’t believe it…”

The soft, disbelieving tone in the waitress’s voice caught Dez’s attention and she slanted a look at them as Taylor drew near, watched as the woman’s eyes widened, watched as she flushed.

“Hi, Anita.” He smiled. “How’ve you been?”

Dez narrowed her eyes, speculating. Okay, now, this wasn’t just some mild familiarity—a guy who’d been in town a day or two. Mind whirling, she thought back to the night before. Her head had been a mess—still was, but not quite so bad. The cop—he’d seemed to know one of the cops.

Put two and two together…Taylor wasn’t exactly a stranger here. Shit. What were the odds? As a headache settled behind her eyes, she looked up and met his gaze. “Howdy, boss,” she drawled. If he
was
known around here, that would explain why he’d been completely convinced he could control the universe…or at least the people around here.

“Can you give us a few minutes, Anita? I need to talk to my agent.” Without looking away from Dez, he slid into the seat across from her and as Anita walked away, he studied her face.

“I’m not your agent,” she said, keeping her voice low.

“You didn’t sleep.”

Dez rolled her eyes. “Did you hear what I said?”

Taylor’s mouth twisted. Then he reached inside the blazer he wore—over jeans, she’d noticed. Still seriously relaxed for him. What in the hell was up with him? She was about to ask him but then saw the folded-up paper he pushed her way. Scowling, she reached for it, only to drop it like it was made of something toxic the second she’d skimmed the first few lines.

“Oh,
hell
, no.” She shoved it back at him.

“Sign it, damn it.”

“Shove it up your ass, Jones.”

He narrowed his eyes and leaned over the table. Somehow he managed to pitch his voice so that she had no problem hearing every last word, but she knew nobody standing three feet away would hear a damn thing. “Sign the fucking contract—I’ll shred it the second this is over, but you’re signing the damn contract. I’m not letting you get hauled in for questioning and this is the best damn way to do it.”

“And what if I refuse?” Dez folded her arms over the table and smirked at him. She knew it would be easier to just sign the damn thing. If he said he’d shred it, she knew he would. Taylor wouldn’t go back on his word. It wasn’t his way.

But she also couldn’t see why in the hell this mattered so much to him, either. She honestly couldn’t. Seeing the fury light up his gaze once more, she groaned and covered her face with her hands, pressing her fingertips to her eyes. “Why, Taylor? You want me to sign that fucking thing, then you give me a straight answer. Straight, no bullshit.”

She heard the harsh, heavy sound of his exhalation and then a faint rustling sound. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

She glanced up, saw the money he’d thrown on the table. Frowning, she said, “I haven’t had breakfast.”

“I’ll bring you back. It’s Denny’s, for crying out loud.” He lifted the menu, studied it with a scowl, and tossed it back down. “They serve it all day. This won’t take but twenty minutes and you’ll understand, I promise.”

Hell. Giving him a dark look, she slid out from the booth, watching as he tucked the contract back into his blazer. They were the focus of much attention as they left the restaurant, and she had the bizarre desire to make a face at everybody over her shoulder as the door swung closed behind them.

She resisted. Barely.

“This better be good,” she said, not bothering to disguise the bitchy tone. She didn’t
work
for him anymore…why should she disguise it? And unless he had a damn good reason, she wasn’t signing that contract, either.

“Just walk with me.” He slid a pair of sunglasses on, shielding his eyes. He looked polished, smooth…even wearing the jeans and blazer. But when did Taylor Jones ever
not
look polished and smooth, completely in control?

Well, that day…when he was inside me. He didn’t look so in control then
. A wave of heat washed over her and she rolled her eyes, looking away so he wouldn’t see the flush of color that flooded her cheeks.

Shoving her hands into her pockets, she stared at her toes. The worn tips of her boots weren’t exactly fascinating, but a lot easier on her brain cells than Taylor Jones.

Moments of silence passed.

She was about to grit her teeth and snarl at him, or swear and demand he say something, when she felt it.

It was a whispering, quiet rush. It started as a whisper but it got louder, oh, so very loud, until it was a roaring scream in her head, one that had her fighting the urge to clap her hands over her ears just to get away from the noise.

She shivered and backed away a few feet, but it didn’t do any good. They still lingered, their presence wrapping around her, calling out to her. Familiar. So very familiar. It left her shivering, and automatically she huddled into her coat, reaching up to tug the collar closed. As the ghostly whispers danced along her consciousness, she realized that Taylor had stopped.

Foreboding crept through her and she looked up, found herself staring at the graceful old building. In elegant scroll across the windows, she saw the words
French Lick City Courthouse
. Below that, in small print, she saw the words
French Lick City Jail
.

“They wouldn’t keep anybody here for too long. Just a few nights. Anything big goes to the county jail. But if they just wanted to talk to you, detain you for a couple of hours? If they decided to keep you overnight? You’d come here.”

He wasn’t looking at her.

But she could already tell he’d seen her reaction.

A fist was lodged in her throat, choking the air out of her as the presence of the departed edged in ever closer. She could hear them, feel them—faint, weak…and so many of them. There was an aged feel to their presence and it ripped at her heart. Fuck, how long had they lingered?

“This courthouse has been here for two hundred years, in some form or another,” Taylor continued, still not looking at her. “And it was used more actively as a jail for a good long while. Small-town place like this, they did their own executions here for years—that stopped a long time ago, but I imagine there are still echoes. And just because executions stop, that doesn’t mean
death
stops. I guess you can probably tell a number of people have died here.

“They are old, you know. I can’t feel them, but even I know that. They are old and fragmented and some of those who died here
did
die for crimes they committed—you can’t give them peace. Maybe you could help some of them, but as old as they are, you may not be able to help
any
of them. There may be nothing left but echoes.”

Now he looked at her, pushing his sunglasses back onto his head. His steel blue eyes locked with hers and he asked quietly, “Do you really want to go in there? For a night? A few hours? Even for five minutes?”

Dez swallowed and shook her head, backing away one slow step at a time.

After she’d put about fifteen feet between herself and the courthouse, the weight of the departed lessened and she could
almost
breathe. Almost. Rubbing a hand over her chest, she whispered, “Damn it.”

“Are you going to sign the damn contract or not?”

Slowly, she looked at him. “Is this why? You just want to make sure you’ve got a legit reason for me being here?”

“I want to make sure I’ve got a legit way to help cover your ass and this is the best way I can think of,” he bit. “It probably wouldn’t work as well anywhere else, but it will here. Are you going to let me help you or not?”

Dez took a deep, slow breath. Just that simple action hurt her chest. She couldn’t imagine the hell it would be to walk inside that place.

She fucking hated old places like that. For this very reason. He was right, damn him to hell. She
couldn’t
help all of the ghosts, but whether she could help them or not, they still whispered to her. Still called to her. She could help some. But in a place like that, she might end up going insane.

Her hands were shaking, she realized. Shaking and sweating. Blowing out an unsteady breath, she looked at him.

“Yeah. I’ll sign it.” Then she added, “But it’s for this, and this only.”

He nodded. “Don’t worry.”