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  Tomorrow. Like Scarlett, she would think about that tomorrow.

  But tonight she knew she would think about who hated her enough to try to run her down and then destroy everything dear to her.

  And when would he, or she, strike again?

  six

  BISBEE

  Despite its small size and seedy condition, Holly took pleasure in the small house. It was hers. Sort of. More, certainly, than any other place she’d lived.

  She loved the desert sunrises and sunsets. She loved taking Harry for walks, carrying with her a book of flowers and plants she’d found at the library. She didn’t have to meet anyone’s expectations but her own.

  Still, fear was never far away. She flinched at the sight of a large car and dreaded what was becoming her daily pilgrimage to the library to check Louisiana newspapers. Her heart always pounded faster as she searched for her name in headlines.

  Nothing. She could find nothing about a murder in her house. Nothing about a search for a murder suspect. Nothing about the missing wife of a prominent politician and daughter of a state supreme court judge.

  The silence convinced her that her husband had indeed planned her murder and was now covering the murderer’s death.

  She knew he wasn’t protecting her. Having a wife as a murderer would hurt his career. So might embarrassing questions.

  How had she ever thought him charming?

  She shivered in the hot air as she sat on her stoop and watched her son play with Caesar. The two were inseparable.

  She’d bought him some jeans, shorts and T-shirts, clothes he’d never been allowed to wear before. He’d been particularly delighted with the jeans. He was a cowboy now.

  Holly took a flyer from her pocket and smoothed it out. It advertised riding lessons for children. She wished she could afford them, but money was too tight at the moment. Perhaps later, when she sold some of her sculptures. She’d already been able to place two on consignment in a small Main Street gallery.

  To make enough to support them, though, she had to increase her output.

  To her relief, Harry was so intrigued by the dog and his new surroundings that he had not asked for his father. But then Harry had been more a possession to Randolph than a person to be loved unconditionally. Approval had been based on exemplary behavior.

  But the questions would come. Like any little boy, he loved his father. He wanted his father’s praise and approval, though she knew he sensed that something was lacking. She wished she could give him an easy world with a dad who adored him. She wished he could have more than she would be able to give him. She was a fugitive, and their lives would be peppered with lies and deceptions.

  If they managed to evade Randolph.

  For the briefest of moments, she wondered whether her son would be better off with someone else. But that thought quickly fled her mind. There was no one. Her mother had died five years ago, still believing Holly had a fairy-tale marriage. Her mother had never seen what she didn’t want to see. Her father was as controlling as Randolph. She did not want her inquisitive, generous and kind little boy growing up to be like his father, to have those kind of values. Nor did she want him to grow up as she had grown up: a hothouse plant protected from everything real in life.

  If she hadn’t grown up that way, she might have recognized Randolph as the monster he was.

  She sighed, then called Harry, delighted when he immediately ran into her arms and gave her a hug. Caesar jumped around them, wanting Harry’s attention back.

  “Go inside,” she said. “You can draw while I work.”

  “Cookie?” he said with a four-year-old’s penchant for blackmail.

  “Yes, indeed. Maybe even two,” she said, pleased that he wanted them. She had baked her first batch of cookies two days ago. They had been terrible. This batch, though, was edible. More than edible.

  He beamed. “Caesar wants one, too.”

  “Caesar can have a dog cookie.”

  “Okay.” Harry followed her into the small kitchen and waited patiently as she poured him a glass of milk and handed him two cookies. Caesar frantically wagged his tail until she gave him a dog biscuit.

  She turned on the television. The combination TV/VCR was new, one of her few purchases. She’d taken enough from her son. She couldn’t take his favorite cartoons, too. Besides, it gave her a link to the outside world, even though the local channels didn’t offer much in the way of world news.

  She watched as Harry settled on the lumpy sofa. Caesar followed him, lifting first one paw, then another before crawling up as if he were putting something over on her. She had no objections. She gloried in the sight of the two of them cuddled together, a happy smile on her son’s face.

  Once Harry’s attention was glued to a cartoon, she started to work on some pieces of copper sheeting she’d purchased at a home improvement store in Tucson. A ladybug this time, she thought, designing it in her head before she started cutting the metal. Then a dancing pig. She’d sold two turtles this past week, an event to celebrate.

  They hadn’t brought in that much. Only sixty dollars each, and out of that she paid for materials, along with a commission. But it was a start toward independence. Toward a new life.

  She wasn’t sure how long she could stay here. Not long, she feared, even though she was becoming attached to the odd little town where houses perched on a mountainside.

  She’d found a poem at the library that kept running through her head.

  We realize fully we’ve a very queer town,

  Where it’s not up, it’s certainly down,

  Our houses all perch on the sides of the hill

  There’s no building laws, we place them at will.

  She smiled whenever she thought of it. The town was an outlaw, a little like herself. Remnants of its old, somewhat seedy history remained in Brewery Gulch, once the home of free-for-all bars and houses of prostitution. Bars remained but they were of the more sedate kind, attracting tourists rather than minors.

  Bisbee was both charming and quietly seductive. The sunsets and sunrises were glorious, and the nights so clear she could see a million stars.

  She had gone out each night and sat on the porch, gazing upward. She was always reluctant to go to bed. Nightmares haunted her. She often woke up wringing wet, cringing. Even worse, she woke one night to hear her son calling for her. Apparently her cries had awakened and frightened him.

  The sound of creaking stairs, the image of the intruder crumpled on the floor were with her always. So was the fear that her husband would find them and take Harry away from her. He was the dearest person in her life. He was her life.…

  The ladybug, destined for someone’s garden, took shape under her fingers.

  The doorbell rang and she froze as the now familiar terror seized her. She had to force herself to go to the window. She looked outside and saw Marty, the woman who owned both her house and Special Things, the craft shop that displayed her work.

  She unlocked the door as Caesar jumped off the sofa and barked.

  “Too late, pal,” she told him with disgust. “Hi,” she greeted Marty warily.

  “Hi yourself. I wanted to call you but you said you didn’t have a phone yet.”

  “You mean one of those newfangled machines that interrupt your every waking hour?”

  “Ah, that’s the one,” Marty said with a grin. “I thought you would like to know I sold the last of your sculptures.”

  Relief—and pride—rushed through her. She waited for Marty to continue.

  “I want as many as I can get. They’ve sold better than any item I’ve carried.” Marty paused. “And I want to invite you to supper. A barbecue with a few of my friends. It’s time you started to meet other people.”

  Panic seized her throat, clogging it with questions. What would she tell them? About Harry’s father? About her past life?

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice hoarse with anxiety. “I haven’t felt well all day, and Harry—”

 
“There will be other children there,” Marty interrupted. “It would be good for him.”

  “We have a new dog. I don’t think Harry …”

  “Dogs are welcome, too. And no wonder you don’t feel well. You look like you haven’t eaten in weeks.”

  Did she look that bad? Did the sleepless nights show in her face?

  “Please, Mommy, can we? Can we go?” Harry was by her side. Pleading.

  “You can walk there,” Marty said, tempting her. “I promise you can leave anytime. No questions asked.”

  But what if Harry slipped up and mentioned his real name? What if he talked about his father to other children when she’d told everyone she was a widow?

  “Please?” Harry said again.

  But wasn’t this what she wanted for him? Normal relationships with normal people? Friends?

  Should she take the chance? Perhaps she could make a game of it. Challenge him to remember that he was Harry from Chicago. If he said anything wrong, they would flee again. But, darn it, he needed friends.

  “We would like that,” she said.

  A broad smile transformed Marty’s weathered face. She was one of many aging flower children who had found their way to Bisbee years earlier. Holly had already discovered the older woman had a tendency to mother everyone she met.

  “Around six,” Marty said.

  Feeling trapped, Holly just nodded. She needed Marty’s goodwill.

  “Just bring yourselves,” Marty said. “Very casual.” She handed Holly a little map. “No parking up there, I’m afraid.”

  “We’ll walk.”

  “Good. And remember, I’ll take as many of those garden creatures as you can give me. Don’t take them anywhere else.”

  Marty’s enthusiasm was contagious. Someone actually liked her art. “You might regret that.”

  “I don’t think so.” Marty looked down at Caesar. “Ah, you have Caesar,” she said with a lilt in her voice. “I’m glad he found a good home.”

  “You must know Julie at the animal shelter then?”

  “Live here long enough and you know nearly everyone and everyone’s business,” Marty said. “She’ll be at supper, too.”

  Know nearly everyone’s business. A shudder ran through Holly. Perhaps a large city would have been more anonymous. She had second thoughts, and third, about accepting the invitation, but there was no way to retreat now.

  Marty gave a little wave and walked down to what must have been the most ancient Volkswagen Bug on the roads. The paint was rusted, but the car started immediately.

  Work. She had to get back to work. She had a son to support. She wouldn’t think about tonight, except to warn him about “the little game.” Still, she felt the growing web of lies strangling her.

  NEW ORLEANS

  Gage heard about the attack on Meredith Rawson from another detective.

  Any violence against a former assistant district attorney was news. It could be payback from a bad guy she’d put away. That was something a police department could not tolerate.

  Those attacks always received special attention.

  But she was also in a legal specialty that attracted threats. There was nothing more dangerous than a bully husband who’d lost his favorite victim. But it wasn’t murder, and he wasn’t involved.

  Or was he?

  He did not believe in coincidence.

  All of a sudden, Ms. Rawson’s name—or her family’s name—was appearing a little too often. His instincts were prodding him, and he trusted those instincts. Even a mental warning that none of the events seemed connected didn’t subdue them.

  Because he didn’t want them subdued?

  He soaked up all the rumors, all the talk flying around the offices.

  She’d not been hurt. She’d used her head. Her home had been practically destroyed. She was staying in a hotel. She refused protection.

  It’s not your case.

  He knew he would be on thin ice if he approached her. The case was in someone else’s hands, and poaching was not appreciated. But her father’s name had surfaced in one of his cases.

  He took the files from the Prescott case and looked at them again, though he knew them by heart. The investigators obviously had not wanted to annoy New Orleans’s powers-that-be. Charles Rawson had been asked very few questions. Yes, he was a friend of the victim. Yes, he had dined with Prescott the night of the murder, then Rawson had gone home after an argument. There was no folllow-up, no note as to whether the wife had been interviewed to verify the statement or even what the argument had been about.

  He was going to start with Rawson’s wife. A surprise visit might shake her.

  He looked up the phone number and called, only to learn that Mrs. Rawson was in critical condition at the hospital. So that was why Meredith had been there. When he had heard she’d been attacked in a hospital parking lot, he’d assumed she’d been visiting a client, or a friend.

  Gage sat there for several moments, weighing his next move. It obviously was not Mrs. Rawson.

  Meredith Rawson? Or her father?

  He called Rawson at his law firm, only to discover that he was in court. He hesitated, then tried Meredith Rawson’s law office. He wanted to know more about the burglary as well, and whether Rick Fuller could be involved. More than once, a husband had gone after the wife’s attorney.

  To his surprise, she answered the phone.

  “Ms. Rawson, Detective Gaynor.”

  “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “I would like to talk to you.”

  “About Rick Fuller?”

  “No. Another matter.”

  “This is not a good day.”

  “I heard about the attack and burglary. I’m sorry.”

  A short pause. “Is that what you want to discuss?”

  “No. I’m looking into an old case. Oliver Prescott.”

  “I remember that,” she replied cautiously. “Is there something new?”

  He chose to ignore that question. “You knew him. I hoped you could tell us something about him.”

  “I was in school at the time. I knew him, of course, but not that well. He was much older. I don’t know how I could help you.”

  “Just a few questions, a few moments of your time. Perhaps you know more than you think.”

  “My mother is very ill. My house has just been ransacked and my computer stolen. I simply don’t have the time. If I knew anything—”

  “What about lunch? A quick sandwich.”

  She paused, then, with an audible sigh, said, “If you’ll bring it to my office. We’re backing up all our files. I have to be here.”

  “Done. What will it be?”

  “Comfort food. A muffaletta.”

  “You have it. Noon okay?”

  A pause. He feared she was reconsidering.

  “I have two people working with me.”

  “I’ll bring enough for all.”

  “I still don’t know how I can help—”

  “I’ll be there at noon,” he said, and hung up before she could change her mind.

  As soon as Gaynor hung up, Meredith wished she hadn’t agreed. In fact, she didn’t know exactly why she had.

  She’d had three hours’ sleep at most. And what sleep she’d had had been restless. Her life seemed to be in free fall.

  She’d risen at seven as she always did and called the hotel’s front desk to see if anything had arrived for her. It had. The new key to her house was in an envelope. Then she’d hurried to her office to see for herself that her office was untouched.

  Sometime today, she had to return home and start cleaning up the mess. She had to see her mother. She’d promised the police she would make a list of people who might want to do her harm. She wanted to get started on finding her sister.

  There was no end to this day. And now this. She definitely should have said no. She should never have picked up the phone, but she often did when they were all busy. Most callers wanted her.

  She didn’t
know if she was alert enough to go head-to-head with Gaynor. Why in God’s name would he want to talk to her about a fifteen-year-old murder? At least, she thought it had been that long.

  She went to her computer. Sarah was using her computer to back up files. This time the compact disks would go into a safe deposit box.

  She looked up Oliver Prescott on the Internet and found dozens of stories about the murder. The number had dwindled as time had passed without any apparent progress in the investigation.

  Now she remembered more. She’d been sixteen at the time and attending accelerated classes at a respected Catholic school. She’d been on a class trip to Washington, D.C., that weekend. The murder had been the main topic of conversation for weeks.

  Meredith read all the accounts she could find.

  Prescott and her father had dined together at the Court of Two Sisters, where they apparently discussed some business matter. Witnesses saw the two separate outside the restaurant, each taking his own car.

  Prescott’s body was found the next morning in his home. He had been shot. There was no indication of a break-in, but his wallet was missing. So was a very expensive painting.

  Clues had been scarce.

  She realized why Gaynor wanted to talk to her. Her father had been the last known person to be with the victim. The police always started at that point.

  But why did the detective want to see her? Why not her father?

  She returned to backing up her files, then went into Sarah’s office. “How’s it going?”

  “Another hour.”

  Meredith looked at her watch. “Someone’s bringing us lunch.”

  Sarah raised an eyebrow, even as she replaced one CD with another and carefully marked the one she had just ejected. When Meredith didn’t immediately answer, Sarah asked, “Who? And more important, what?”

  “Muffalettas.”

  “I can deal with that,” Sarah said. “It’s far better than my tuna salad. Should I ask who again?”

  “A detective.”

  Sarah waited again, then pressed, “Who?”

  “Detective Gaynor.”

  Sarah started to grin. “The Lone Ranger strikes again. You must have made an impact at court.”