Chapter 6

6

Special Agent Jack Stone

" W e're going to owe Buddy a steak dinner after tonight," I say as Fallon and I head into Sugar Pine General Hospital. The fluorescent lights feel as if they're taking an X-ray of my soul with their unnatural brightness as they bear down on us.

" After tonight?" She gives a quick laugh. "Try in about two hours. That cute pooch hasn't missed a meal yet and he's not starting now."

"Duly noted," I say. "We can have the steaks grilled to perfection—then delivered to your place. We'll be working late."

"What about your place?" She actually manages to sound indignant about it.

Jet comes to mind and I shake my head.

Both Fallon and I happen to live in Pine Ridge Falls, in an enclave of cabins called Whispering Woods. My view of the lake might be better than hers, but my derelict of a brother happens to live with me. Although I've got to give it to him. He's on one hell of a dry streak.

"Buddy prefers your place." Come to think of it, so do I.

The sterile white corridors echo with the shuffle of visitors as they meander into patients' rooms. A cluster of nurses passes us by and three out of four widen their eyes my way.

"Looks like someone's getting noticed," Fallon quips as we keep it moving.

"Yeah, well, I'm not noticing anyone back."

" Ah , I see. I almost forgot. You prefer your women spinning around a pole, not flicking a needle at you."

"I don't know." I swallow down a laugh. "I've had a little fun with needles back in the day."

We come upon the room number we were given at the front desk and I give a little knock before poking my head inside.

"Hello?" I call out before entering.

We find Damien propped up in bed, his right hand bandaged and resting on top of a pillow. His face is pale and his eyes rimmed with the redness of fatigue and perhaps stress.

He looks up as we enter, forcing a weak smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He looks to be pushing sixty, with thinning gray salt and pepper hair and sculpted features.

Fallon straightens a notch at the sight of him, and something tells me she's bracing for lies.

I am, too.

After all, the man is at the center of a violent crime, with his wife missing and his friends dead. He practically came away unscathed. It's not a good look.

"Good evening," I say as we press in until we're standing next to his bed. "I'm Special Agent Stone and this is Special Agent Baxter. We're with the FBI." We do a quick obligatory flash of our badges and any trace of a polite smile disappears from his face.

"I didn't expect the FBI to visit," his voice is hoarse as he says it. "But I'm glad you're here."

He doesn't look too thrilled.

I pull up a chair beside his bed while Fallon remains standing with her phone ready.

"We're here to find out what happened, Damien. Your friends are dead, and your wife is missing," I say, cutting straight to the chase. "You can imagine we have a lot of questions."

Damien swallows hard as his gaze wanders toward the window before settling back on us. "Of course, I'll help however I can." He clears his throat as he attempts to sit up a notch.

I'm not sure why, but I'd swear there was a hint of reluctance in his voice. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt for now. The man is grieving, confused, and most likely drugged to the hilt.

Fallon steps forward and her perfume precedes her. Always clean, never sweet. Her dark hair runs down her shoulders and those hazel eyes of hers glow as if they were backlit. I try not to notice how stunning my new partner is, but it's an impossible feat.

"Let's start with the evening before the shooting," she says. "Can you walk us through what happened?"

Damien blows out a breath as he picks at the edge of his blanket. "We were getting settled for the night. We had a good dinner." His bushy brows furrow. "We played a card game for a few hours."

"Which one?" I look up as I ask. "My mother loved card games." I shed a short-lived smile.

It's true. My mother loved card games. That stack of fifty-two diversions was all we had to entertain ourselves for the most part. Then soon enough, my mother found other ways to entertain herself—turning tricks for money. But I can hardly fault her. Someone needed to keep the lights on, and as my dad learned the hard way, heroin doesn't pay the bills. In fact, quite the opposite.

"Sevens?" Damien shakes his head. "Something Lydia came across recently. It was new to us. And then we talked shop." His voice cracks at the right time, and his eyes gloss over. "Cornwall and Cindy were—they were wonderful people, but they were great authors, too." He takes a moment to wipe his eyes with his free hand. "I guess I won't be writing anytime soon." He lifts his bandaged hand a notch. "I like to write out my first drafts long hand. I'm an old blowhard that way." He shakes his head as he stares past us grimly. "And then that was it. We went to bed."

"Did you fall right asleep?" Fallon asks sweetly as if she were trying to lull him to sleep right now with the soft cadence of her voice. But she's not. She's trying to gauge his mental state before the bullets hit the fan, or the bodies for that matter.

"Actually, no." He closes his eyes a moment. "The bed was too small. It's a full size. We gave the master suite to our friends. We've been meaning to get another mattress up there, but never got around to it. We couldn't expect them to be uncomfortable for a week, so Lydia and I took it."

Fallon and I exchange a quick glance because suddenly we're left to wonder who the bullets were meant for.

"We were hosting a little writing retreat with our friends," he goes on. "They usually stay at the lodge next door to the community center for the event. The convention has been running for years now. That's actually why Lydia and I bought the cabin a few years back. But this year"—he slaps the back of his neck and stares at his hospital-issued socks in a daze—"we invited them to stay with us. We thought we could use the company."

Fallon nods, and I know she's thinking it.

Why now? Did Damien and Lydia need a buffer? Was the marriage in trouble? Suffice it to say, marital ties don't mean much as far as garnering any mercy from us.

If anything, the opposite is true.

"Cards, talking shop, bedtime," I repeat, studying him, noting the careful way he avoids mentioning any specifics that might lead us to question his narrative further. "What happened after that?"

"We went to bed." He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. "I had a tough time falling asleep, but I drifted off eventually. We woke up to a bang and then more shots were fired. Both my wife and I jumped out of bed and ran into the hall. I don't know what I was expecting to find. I thought maybe a bullet flew through the wall. I wasn't expecting to find an intruder. I tried to apprehend them, but another shot was fired." He holds up his hand. "I'm not sure if that's when this happened. But something sent a jolt up my shoulder and I fell to the ground. I saw—I saw them attack Lydia. She fell to the ground and it looked like they put something over her head." His lips clamp shut and he shakes his head as his eyes swell with tears. "That's all."

Fallon leans in. "We met a couple of women who showed up at the scene. Jewel and Adrienne, they were concerned about you."

His eyes widen and he freezes a moment.

Something is up with this guy, but yet again I can't discount his meds either.

"Yes." He squeezes his eyes shut. "They're working the convention. I'm sure the news traveled fast."

"We let them know you were recovering from your wounds," I tell him. "We asked them a few questions and Jewel mentioned that you've been having trouble with one of your neighbors."

The man's chest widens a foot with his next breath, and I lurch forward, ready to call a nurse.

"Owen," he growls out the name as if he were about to murder the man, and Fallon and I glance at one another.

If it takes less than a nanosecond to react to something, then it's a visceral response and that's exactly what Owen Marcus just drew from Damien.

"He's my neighbor, back in Briarwood," he begins to pant. "Good grief, the man is psychotic. Please, go there now and arrest him. He's taken things way too far this time." His good hand begins to claw at his bed sheets and the monitor attached to his arm beeps and whistles in response.

Within seconds, a trio of nurses are tending to him and threatening him with more medication to help him relax.

I land my card on his bedside table and offer a meager smile.

"We'll talk again. Rest up," I say. We're not done here, not by a long shot. "If you can think of anything else that can help, don't hesitate to call."

Fallon nods his way. "We'll be in touch."

He offers a hardened look our way. "I don't know what the heck happened last night or why, but I will not be surprised if Owen Marcus is behind this. He's vowed to make our lives miserable, and we've got witnesses who can attest to it. We've filed numerous reports with the sheriff's department. Look into it. I want an arrest, and I want it now ," he growls so loud the metal frame of his bed vibrates.

"You'll be hearing from us," I say as Fallon and I leave the room. "Well?" I whisper her way as we make a beeline for the elevator.

"He didn't ask about his wife."

"Not once," I say as we head downstairs and make our way to the parking lot.

All the way back to Pine Ridge Falls, I wonder what could go so wrong in a marriage that you wouldn't be bothered to ask if your wife was still missing.

The possibilities are endless. My imagination can run forever.

But whoever did this won't be running for very long.

We're going to hunt them down just like they did Cornwall and Cynthia Beck.