Cold Target Part 56

"I told you about our floater. A man who was found in a bayou. We struck gold. A sample of DNA was taken. It matched up with a man named Carrick. So happened he was charged with rape while in the service. The victim refused to testify but he was given a discharge and his DNA went on file."

"The name meant something to you," she said.

"He worked occasionally for Randolph Ames."

He punched in some numbers on the cell phone.

"Sanders, it's Gaynor again. Any luck?"

She could hear the reporter sputtering over the line. It was clear he was very angry at being stonewalled.

"Well, I might have something else for you."

She noticed he let that tantalizing morsel sit a moment before continuing. "Ask the Ames people if they know a man named Carrick. Accused rapist some years ago. Now a body in the morgue. A floater with no hands and no head."

He listened for a moment, then said with some relish, "Look in your own morgue for photos of State Senator Randolph Ames. You'll discover Carrick in some background photos. Apparently worked as a chauffeur and bodyguard."

Meredith heard an exclamation from the receiver, then Gage said, "I don't know if he knew or not. I'm sure you can find out. But you didn't get it from me." He snapped the phone closed.

He turned back to her. His eyes were worried. "I don't like the idea that Holly Ames is missing," he said.

She felt a similar panic. She'd heard enough to send chills down her back.

He took her hand. "Let's get back. I really want to talk to Ames. By the time DeWitt finishes with him, he's going to be in a panic."

They paddled back without stopping along the way to gaze at birds as they had on their way out.

As they drew closer, she saw Dom pacing the small, rickety dock, Beast beside him.

Gage stepped out of the canoe as Dom tied it to the dock. Then Gage reached out and helped her from the boat.

He turned to Dom. "What is it?"

"They're closing down my shelter."

*Chapter Twenty-nine*

'BISBEE'.

Holly worked on her latest creation, Belle the b.u.t.terfly. She had steadily increased her production, enjoying every single moment.

She couldn't remember when she had been so happy. Nor when Harry had been.

She was finally beginning to feel safe. If Randolph hadn't found her by now, he'd probably cut his losses and made up some plausible story.

Now that she was concentrating on Garden Folk, she no longer went to the library every day. Instead she had invested in an inexpensive used computer. She still checked the New Orleans papers occasionally, but certainly not with the compulsion she had her first weeks in Bisbee.

The increased amount of work had not diminished her joy in creating. She now had the pig, the b.u.t.terfly, the frog, the ladybug, a whimsical turtle, and a snail. Each one changed, according to her mood and the piece of metal she used.

It was the best of all possible worlds. She could watch Harry, and now he had the computer as well as the television, books and Caesar to keep him happily occupied. They went for a long walk every day, and that was their special time together.

Doug had gotten into the habit of dropping by two or three times a week, always with food. He knew how much Harry loved tacos, and he could whip them up in no time while she put away her tools. Sometimes Jenny came and sometimes not, depending on her schedule.

Doug and Holly would sit outside and have a gla.s.s of wine or beer and watch the sun set.

He would leave then, realizing that she had to get back to work. He was the most undemanding, most patient man she had ever met. He just seemed to enjoy their company.

It was frightening how much she looked forward to his knock on the door and how much she liked looking at his face. It was such a pleasant face. The sun had bronzed it. Intriguing laugh lines drew attention to kind and intelligent eyes and a mouth that smiled easily. The features were craggy rather than handsome, obviously carved by character rather than displaying the smooth good looks of someone to whom everything came easily.

She had never heard him say an unkind word about anyone. She couldn't remember Randolph ever saying a kind one.

Every day, she got nearer and nearer to telling Doug her story. Each time, she caught herself before the words spilled out.

She knew she would. That one day she would trust him enough to tell him. And that day she would be putting her life, and Harry's, in his hands.

The phone rang, and she picked it up.

"We've received three orders for your Garden Folk," Marty said happily. "Also received a call from a gallery in Florida asking about them. They want to purchase ten but they also want to know something about the artist for marketing purposes. Apparently it's an intimate type of place that likes to personalize everything."

"What is there to say?" Holly asked cautiously.

"Maybe something about how you became inspired to create them."

"I'm not a writer."

"Why don't I write up something and let you look at it?"

"Okay," Holly said without enthusiasm. "But I don't want anything about Harry or myself."

"I'll be sure to concentrate on the creativity part," Marty said. "Can you and Harry come to supper tomorrow? I'm having another little gathering to celebrate. About the size of the one we had, when you first came. Bring Doug."

She hung up before Holly could reply.

Holly slowly replaced the phone in the cradle. She knew that Bisbee now considered the sheriff and her a couple. Several comments had been made at the store where she shopped and at the library. 'Are you and Doug going to the concert in the park? Are you and Doug going to the opening of the new restaurant'?

She saw the love in his eyes. She felt it in the way he touched her. In his infinite patience. She wondered if her eyes reflected her growing feelings for him.

Perhaps it was time to tell him. But then what, as a lawman, would he have to do?

Would it be fair to him? She would never know until she told him. And they couldn't continue as they were. He wanted more. He needed more. He deserved more.

Perhaps tonight...

'NEW ORLEANS'.

Everything was unraveling. The d.a.m.n reporter wouldn't give up. He had even turned up at campaign headquarters and barged into Randolph's private office. The last question had been like a dagger aimed directly at his heart. "Do you know a man named Carrick?"

Randolph wanted to say no. But that was one of the few things he couldn't hide. He knew Carrick had been in some photos with him. d.a.m.n the man for his incompetence.

Carrick had a.s.sured Randolph he could do the job without outside help. After all, Mrs. Ames could be no kind of threat. She hated guns. She hated violence. She was a timid mouse.

So what in the h.e.l.l had happened in his house?

He certainly hadn't expected what he'd found. A dead man in his wife's bedroom. Both his wife and son gone.

He'd immediately called his father-in-law, who calmed him down and told him what to do. Carrick would have to disappear. As would Holly ... once she was found. Immediately.

But Holly had proved more elusive than anyone had thought.

And now Carrick had been identified.

Randolph hoped he didn't look as rattled as he felt. DeWitt had just barged into his office with a breezy, "Thought you were in Baton Rouge, Senator."

Since that was what Randolph had told the staff to tell the reporter, he felt cornered. "The meeting was over earlier than I thought."

"And what meeting was that, Senator?"

The best defense is a good offense. That's one thing he'd learned well from his father-in-law. "I didn't know you had moved over to the political beat."

"I haven't," DeWitt said. "But you interest me, Senator."

He couldn't help but be startled by the p.r.o.nouncement. "Why?"

"Your wife, for instance. No one has seen her for a while."

"I thought my office had explained," Randolph said stiffly. "She's looking after a sick friend."

"But why is she incommunicado? Rather strange, isn't it? I mean, she is the wife of a man who wants to be a congressman. I a.s.sume she knows there are obligations."

"I'm the candidate, not my wife," Randolph said. "Her private life is her own."

"The voting public likes to know the family situation of its candidates. Now, if she's left you for some reason, I think they have the right to know that."

"She hasn't left me."

"Rumors say otherwise."

Randolph recognized the trap. "It hasn't been a problem." Of course he'd heard rumors and had been asked about Holly's absence by members of the press, who'd had the sense to back off when he and his father-in-law stared them down while delivering the story. But he knew that all too soon they would not be appeased and he would have to come up with Holly, her death, or a more convincing story about her absence. Visiting a sick friend. He'd not done too well coming up with that old saw.

"One phone call could clear this up," DeWitt said.

Randolph pondered the problem. He'd always had good press. He'd always courted reporters, taking them to dinner, to lunch, dropping news tips in their ears. He couldn't afford for them to turn against him now, and DeWitt was an important news figure in the city.

He could, of course, call the editor and ask why DeWitt was now covering a simple congressional campaign, but that might raise someone's antenna. Better to get a woman to call and pretend to be his wife.

"I'll try to arrange a call," he said.

"What about right now?"

"Her friend is dying. She is distraught. I'm not going to call and have her interrogated without some warning." He leaned forward in his seat. "I'll tell you something off the record. Holly is shy and sensitive. She doesn't like the political life. I'm sorry to say she doesn't care for reporters and has always avoided them. The only way I could convince her to accept my candidacy was to promise she would not have to be a public figure herself, that she could continue to raise our young son with privacy. I don't intend to break that promise," he finished righteously.

"When can I speak to her then?"

"I'll call you."

DeWitt gave him a look that said he wasn't buying any of it. "If I don't hear from you by tomorrow, I'll start asking some questions in my Sunday column," he said. "Now what about Carrick?"

"Can't say I know much about him. A friend asked me to hire him. He was my driver, nothing else. Then he disappeared."

"When?"

"I really can't recall the exact day."

"Perhaps your payroll records will."

"I'll ask my treasurer to check."

"Now?"

"He's not here now."

The reporter stared at him. Randolph met his gaze directly. He was good at that. It was an acquired art.

"Now I have a radio interview scheduled," he said, rising from his chair and holding out his hand.

DeWitt ignored it. "Did you know Carrick had a general discharge from the army?"

"No, can't say I did." He wasn't about to admit he did indeed know. "As I said, a friend asked me to hire him, said he was down on his luck. He was a good driver."

"Don't you do background checks on your staff?"

"He really wasn't on the staff. He was just there on an as-needed basis."

"You really should be more careful, Senator. He was accused of rape. I'm surprised you would want someone like that around your wife."

The d.a.m.n reporter wouldn't quit.

"I'll take your advice," he said. "And now I really must go."

"Can I take you anywhere? Since you don't have a driver?"