Deathtoll (Broslin Creek Book 8) Page 10

  Chapter Fourteen

  Asael

  Asael sat in the center of the middle pew at Betty Gardner’s memorial service—like a spider in his web—watching the mourners and unsure why. He was not in the habit of attending the funerals of his victims. Amateurs did that. The cops were always around, hoping to nab the killer. Not a fate Asael anticipated for himself, since he was certainly not an amateur. He was a master.

  Stupid cops didn’t even know there’d been a murder.

  Asael observed precautions anyway. He sat with friends and family instead of in the back, where he would have been a lone spectator, possibly suspicious. He was masked as an octogenarian. When people asked, he said he’d served with Betty’s husband, lived in West Chester, and saw the obituary in the paper.

  As the choir sang—not one good voice among the lot—he wanted to be anywhere but there. Yet he was at the funeral because, to start with, there was little else to do in the damned town other than going to their fungus festival. Small-town people were a waste of space, not fit to live—born in some godforsaken backwater of a place without enough brains and ambition to leave. The kind of people who’d die in the same town where they were born and go nowhere in between, doing the same damn thing every day, usually the same damn thing their parents had done before them. And they were convinced they had it best, that they had it great. All smiling and chatty and stupid and annoyingly syrupy sweet, and so damn proud of themselves.

  Nauseating.

  Asael couldn’t walk down the street without wanting to strangle at least half a dozen of them.

  Broslin was his idea of hell. The thought of a lifetime in a place like this made him want to peel off his own skin.

  He couldn’t imagine Mordocai enjoying this sort of environment either. He had to have come here for a job. And since he’d kidnapped Kate Concord, she had to have been the job. And while Mordocai had been setting up her disappearance, he’d found a gift for Asael.

  What damn gift? The only thing the unsufferable town was famous for was its mushroom production. If they grew some rare poisonous mushrooms, that could have explained it, but no. Whitecap and portobello. Asael had checked.

  So, what gift? And why couldn’t he let all these damn questions go? Why did he care? Except that his instincts were prickling, leaving him no rest.

  He watched mourners walk up to the coffin one by one. Kate and Murph were there, although not together—the bitch infuriatingly familiar, yet, for once, Asael’s memory failed him.

  He kept an eye on her as the infernal organ music drove him crazy. Then the choir burst into song again. He wished they’d burst into flames.

  It could be arranged.

  The happiest thought he’d had all day.

  He sat there for another minute, then pushed to his feet and edged out of the pew. “Excuse me.” He was done. He’d suffered all he could take. “Excuse me.” He hadn’t been to a funeral since…

  It’d been a small chapel, almost like this one, on the outskirts of Los Angeles, the funeral of a woman who’d seen him taking out a mark, the only person ever to have seen him and gotten away. The only one to be able to identify him. He’d tracked her down and taken her out, had gone to her funeral to make sure she was dead. Cathleen Bridges. His brain readily supplied the name.

  Clever little bitch, working with the FBI to fake her own funeral, as it turned out.

  He’d blown her to pieces along with an FBI van, then put her behind him.

  But now…

  The sounds of the service faded into the background, the buzz of the funeral disappeared. Old memories sharpened.

  Asael’s gaze snapped to Kate Concord by the coffin.

  The hair was wrong—the color, the cut, the length—and so was the style of her clothing. And yet…

  As Asael watched her, he came alive, the thrill of the hunt spreading through his veins.

  Well, well, well, a fellow resurrectionist.

  Hello there, Miss Bridges.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kate

  “Coffee?” Emma asked as she and Kate walked into the house after the funeral.

  “I’m trying to cut down. I’ve been feeling weirdly jumpy and edgy lately.” Grief sat heavily on her shoulders. Betty had been gone for several days, but the service and saying goodbye at the coffin made her death more real.

  Kate’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen.

  “Captain Bing. I was about to call you.” She hung up her coat with her free hand. “I wanted to check on how Ian McCall’s psych eval went yesterday.”

  “Our usual guy who does psych evals has retired.” The captain cleared his throat. “New guy couldn’t come out right away, so I had to keep Mr. McCall overnight.”

  Something in Bing’s voice set off Kate’s internal alarms. “Is he all right?”

  “I put him in the conference room. He’s a vet. He served his country. That means something to me.”

  “I know. Thank you for—”

  “Should have put him in the interview room,” the captain said, and as Kate wondered what the difference was, he added, “Interview room locks automatically.”

  Words that pretty much clued Kate in to where this conversation was going. “What happened?”

  “I told the psych consult to ring me when he was done, and I’d collect McCall.” A frustrated grunt popped through the line. “Idiot had a question and came over to my office. Leila was in the back, making coffee. McCall walked out.”

  “I should have…” Kate had no idea how to finish. She didn’t know what she could have done differently under the circumstances, only that she should have done something more, because this outcome was unacceptable.

  “Not your fault.” Bing huffed. “It’s mine, if it’s anyone’s. I have an APB on him. Everyone’s out looking. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I’m going to send Mike over to Hope Hill, in case McCall goes back there.”

  “I don’t think he’s looking to cause trouble.”

  “Maybe not. There’s not much I can charge him with. Not sure if I want to charge him. But having that psych eval, knowing what’s going on with him, would have made me feel better.”

  “Should I go in to work? Just in case he goes back there? I’m at home. I took the day off for the funeral.”

  “If he goes to Hope Hill, Mike will handle it. You might want to ask Murph to hang out at your place, just as a precaution, for a few hours. Until we locate the guy.”

  Kate looked at Emma, who’d already put on coffee and was paging through the stack of magazines and catalogs that had come in the mail that week. “Ian wouldn’t come here. He has no idea where I live.”

  “Almost everyone else in town does. All he has to do is ask someone.”

  “Let’s hope people won’t give a stranger my home address.”

  “Most wouldn’t, but it only takes one.”

  Maybe so, but she wasn’t going to invite Murph over regardless, Kate thought as she thanked the captain for the warning, then hung up.

  “Trouble?” Emma asked.

  “The man I had that confrontation with at work yesterday busted out of the police station.” Kate walked to the window and looked at her quiet little neighborhood. “He doesn’t know where I live. We should be fine.”

  “You should call Murph over.”

  Why is that everyone’s first thought?

  “How about I grab my own gun and keep it within reach until Ian is located?” Not that she thought it was necessary, but maybe that would convince everyone that she could defend herself, and they would get off her back. She fixed Emma with a serious look. “But, please, don’t handle it.”

  “What am I, twelve?” Emma rolled her eyes, poured herself a cup of coffee at last, then leaned against the counter. “Did Linda Gonzales say when she was coming over to finish cleaning out Betty’s place?”

  “First thing in the morning. Since I have the weekend off, I think we’ll have the whole house packed.”

  “Is Murph
coming to help again?”

  Kate nodded. That was Murph. If someone he knew was moving, he offered to carry furniture. He’d mowed the lawn at Joe’s house for the past month because Joe—one of Hope Hill’s janitors—was allergic to grass, and Gracie, his wife, had broken her leg. Kate had seen Murph jump up and clear tables at Finnegan’s before when the place had been shorthanded. Apparently, he’d bussed tables there as a teenager. He was a good guy. A great guy. His character had never been the problem.

  “Let’s change out of our funeral clothes, mix up some margaritas, and watch a movie.” Kate headed to her bedroom. “How about Bridget?”

  That put an instant smile on Emma’s face. “I love old movies. A drink would be nice, but no food, no snacks, not so much as a single popcorn. After that church spread, I don’t want to see a food item until the Fourth of July barbeque at Mom and Dad’s.”

  “Just Mark Darcy and margaritas. And I’m going to pretend you didn’t say old movies.”

  Emma turned back from the door of the guest bedroom with a here-is-your-reality-check look. “Twenty. Years. Old.”

  “So mean. But guess what, baby sister? Twilight is thirteen. Babies who were born while you were trying to decide between Edward and Jacob are now teenagers.” Kate smirked as she strode into her bedroom with panache.

  God, she’d missed this, the teasing, the sibling one-upmanship, even the occasional fight she’d had with her sister. She was glad Emma was staying. And she was determined to enjoy every single day they were together again. She didn’t think it would be permanent, just until Emma figured out what to do next.

  For the rest of the afternoon and evening, Kate pretended she’d forgotten all about Ian, but she was on alert, checking her phone when Emma wasn’t looking. No texts from Hope Hill about any trouble there. No calls. No updates from the captain—which meant Ian was still out there all alone, not getting help.

  “What are you going to do about the Ian guy?” Emma asked as they were going to bed.

  “If he reaches out? Anything I can to make sure he receives the right treatment. Right now, he’s just plunging himself into more and more trouble. I wish I’d passed him my phone number before Bing carted him off yesterday. I didn’t think of it at the time.”

  “You couldn’t have predicted that he’d go on the lam.”

  Kate nodded and stepped into her bedroom, ready for some rest.

  She slipped her gun into her nightstand drawer.

  Moonlight hit her empty bed, emphasizing it as if the room was a stage set for a play called My Lonely Life. Since she didn’t want to think about missing Murph, she turned to the window. The moon was rising, kissing Betty’s roof before parting from the ridge and moving along on its celestial journey. The house that was no longer a home sat dark and silent, a sad and abandoned vibe about it already.

  Kate sighed. Maybe she was just projecting.

  She looked up at the sparkle of stars in the clear October sky. “I’m going to miss you, Betty.”

  As she settled between the sheets, she thought of the funeral service, the chapel filled to the brim. Everyone had something nice to say about Betty Gardner, about her kind heart and gentle spirit.

  Kate even dreamed about her, but in the dream, Betty was her grandmother. They were having tea and cookies.

  An odd sound woke her in the middle of the night, a vaguely familiar metallic snick. A few seconds passed before she could identify it: a door being unlocked.

  Betty’s back door, to be specific, less than a dozen feet from Kate’s bedroom window.

  She blinked the sleep from her eyes and glanced at her clock.

  Two a.m.

  Without turning on the light, she slipped out of bed to look outside. Betty’s house sat enshrouded in darkness and silence, same as when Kate had gone to bed. The neighborhood slept, all at peace.

  Probably dreamt the sound.

  Kate rubbed her forehead, then padded out to the kitchen for a glass of water. She was just jittery. As much as she knew Ian wouldn’t come after her to hurt her, her subconscious was on alert out of habit. She’d spent too many years of her life on the run, always on her guard.

  She’d barely taken the first sip when she happened to glance out the window over the sink.

  “What the—” she said out loud, sputtering.

  A pickup she knew all too well sat in front of her house by the curb, with Murph sleeping behind the wheel.

  Dammit.

  Bing must have called him too about Ian’s escape.

  Kate drained the glass, then set it on the counter with a hard clink, braced her hands on the edge of the sink, and looked at the man who was doing his best to drive her crazy on a daily basis.

  The übervigilance was so completely unnecessary. Ian McCall wasn’t going to come to her house in the middle of the night. He was probably back at home in Virginia by now.

  Kate watched as the shadow in the truck moved, Murph shifting slightly in his sleep.

  His bad shoulder is going to kill him in the morning.

  Her heart twisted, because of course it did.

  Her couch wasn’t the best, yet it was still better than sleeping in a truck.

  She could invite him in.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Murph

  Murph lifted the recliner destined for the West Street Mission, doing his best not to show how much it hurt his aching back, but inside, he was swearing like a sailor who stepped on a rusty nail on deck. If he’d needed a reminder that he was no longer twenty, spending the night in his pickup had done the job.

  He carried the old piece of furniture out, loaded it, then paused for a minute to roll his shoulders and stretch his muscles. Did not help. He was damn near limping on his way back inside.

  Emma was still working in the back of the house. Linda wasn’t coming after all. She had some emergency church meeting about an upcoming prayer retreat. But she’d written out what would go where and had given detailed instructions.

  “I’ll take this next.” Murph grabbed the old-fashioned, solid-oak coffee table, but before he could lift it, Kate yelled at him from the kitchen.

  “Stop! Wait.” She wiped her hands on her jeans, pausing from finishing up the pantry. “Come over here.”

  He was never going to say no if she wanted to be closer to him. No-brainer. He went.

  “Sit.” She pulled a kitchen chair out for him. “Backwards. You can rest your arms on the back of the chair if you’d like.”

  He followed the order, and in a hurry. He knew that position and knew what was coming. Thank you, God. She was going to help him.

  When she put her hands on his shoulders and dug in, he could have cried with relief.

  He remembered the first time she’d done this, taken away his pain. And then afterwards… It’d been the first time he’d kissed her.

  “I saw you out there last night,” she said in a quietly pissed tone, clearly not strolling down memory lane. “For the hundredth time, Ian McCall is not going to come here to hurt me.”

  Murph didn’t say anything. For one, he was afraid she’d stop massaging his stiff muscles if he started arguing. And also, Ian wasn’t even the only possible source of danger he was concerned about, but he wasn’t sure how much he could pass on about what Bing had told him about Betty’s autopsy.

  “Mmm.” They could talk later.

  “Why do you do this to yourself?” She dug in deeper. “I don’t need a bodyguard. Please don’t come here again like that. Okay?”

  “Mmm.”

  She stopped.

  His muscles protested.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Her strong fingers moved lower on his back.

  He fell into a daydream where she kept going. Where her hands then went around his waist to the front, under his shirt, up his chest. She hugged him from behind, her breasts pressed against his back.

  She kissed his neck and bit his ear. And then he turned around and she straddled him and…

  He g
roaned just as Emma sailed into the kitchen.

  “Am I interrupting something?” Then, barely taking a breath in between: “Hey, did Kate tell you I saw a ghost the other day?”

  Murph pulled out of his bliss long enough to respond. “I didn’t realize sixties’ ranchers had them. I thought you had to live in a Victorian mansion to meet things that go bump in the night. Any theatrical moaning? Chain rattling? Dire predictions?”

  “Very funny. Go ahead. Laugh at me. But I saw what I saw.”

  He liked Emma. He didn’t want to offend her. Anything was possible, right? “Whose ghost was it?”

  “Betty’s. I was looking out, and she passed behind her kitchen window.”

  “Don’t bunch up your muscles like that.” Kate dug her fingers in harder.

  Murph barely felt it. His full focus was on Emma. He kept his tone casual as he asked, “When did you see the ghost?”

  She washed her hands in the sink. “The night after she died.”

  “What time?”

  “Sevenish?”

  “How do you know it was Betty?”

  “She’s the only one who died over there recently?” Emma looked at Kate. “I assume.”

  “Probably light reflecting off the windshield of a passing car,” Kate told her sister.

  Who immediately responded with “Killjoy,” in the same droll tone.

  As much as Murph was enjoying the massage and hated the thought of Kate’s fingers leaving his body, he turned around to look at her. “Is there any chance someone might have been inside Betty’s house?”

  Kate dropped her hands. “Linda has the backup key, and she no longer drives. If she wanted to come over, she would have called me to pick her up.”

  “Is there a way for someone to get in without a key?”

  “No. We make sure the house is locked up tight every time we leave.”

  Murph held her gaze. “You didn’t see anything?”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “It could have been…”

  “A leprechaun?”

  Under different circumstances, her quick snark would have made him laugh. “The killer returning to the scene of the crime.”