Mistaken for the Mob

Just like that, Maryanne’s last qualms about her father’s move to Peaceful Meadows vanished. Stan Wellborn had found a home.

Her guilt lifted, she relaxed and the afternoon went by fast, full of laughter, good conversation, a killer game of checkers and a serving of her dad’s birthday cake.

All in all, it was a perfect Sunday afternoon.

“Good night, Cookie.”

“Good night, Dad.”

She hadn’t meant to stay so late, but Maryanne hadn’t wanted to leave her father. She’d had a great time, even though liver and onions was not her favorite dish. Dad had wanted her company at dinner, and since all that awaited her back home was an uppity cat and the report she’d written yesterday afternoon, she’d stayed. She could proofread the whole thing in no time once she got home.

The rain started around sunset, typical for a late spring evening in South Central Pennsylvania. Now, on her way out, she lowered her head, covered it with her tote bag, and ran into the night. In her hurry to reach the car, she didn’t watch her step, and her shoe hit a puddle. She slipped, yelped and dropped.

Muscular arms broke her fall.

“Thanks,” she said and then looked up. “NO!”

She froze in the circle of J.Z. Prophet’s clasp, tight against his chest, close to his warmth and clean scent. Not the smartest thing to do, but until she could breathe again, she couldn’t move. To gather her wits, she tried to think of something—anything—other than those intense gray eyes.

“You should be more careful,” he said, his voice deep.

She fought for breath, and this time, gulped in a lungful of fresh-washed air. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking care of business.”

His tone spoke volumes, but she didn’t understand a thing. Still, she had no intention of carrying on a conversation with the miserable creature. Certainly not while she remained in such a vulnerable position—at his mercy.

She shoved against his chest, and to her surprise, he let her go. She almost fell again, but she summoned her strength and stood upright. She tugged down her belt from where it had slid way up on her ribs; she straightened her skirt; she ignored the rain.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” she said. For good measure, she tipped up her chin. “But I do want to know why you’ve been following me.”

Something sparked in his eyes, but he still didn’t speak.

“Fine.” She stepped toward her car. “You can play Mount Rushmore all you want, especially in the rain. Just remember, if I see you again where you don’t belong but I do, I’ll call the cops.”

“Go ahead.”

The rain sluiced over his dark hair, plastered it to his head like a robber’s skullcap. It did nothing to endear him to her.

“If you want to convince me the law doesn’t bother you, then try something new. Quit following me and really mind your business. No sane man would dog an ordinary woman. There’s nothing interesting about me. I’m a librarian with an elderly, disabled dad.”

He shrugged, that incomprehensible intensity as always in his eyes. “I am minding my business, and I’m good at it.”

A shiver racked Maryanne. It had nothing to do with the rain and everything with the man. “Stalking’s a crime, you know,” she said, steps from her Escort…and safety. “They can lock you up for a long time, so quit before they do.”

She fumbled with her keychain, but to her dismay, she dropped it. With the last of her courage, she said, “Go crawl back under the rock from whence you came.”

As she went for her keys, his hand shot out and grabbed them. Fear churned her gut, and she prayed he wasn’t like a dog, able to scent it on her.

With a click, he unlocked her car door then handed her the keys. In silence, he strode into the dark. Maryanne collapsed against the fender and just stood there, drenched in rain and sweat. For long moments she just breathed and shook, thankful she could still do both.

“Lord God, thank you for…for…whatever. Just help me.”

When she could move again, she opened the door and sat. Long minutes later, she turned on the ignition. The drive home was a numb haze—another mindless drive under her belt. If she kept this up, she’d soon qualify as a homing pigeon, functioning on some instinctual plane.

That, and she’d have a couple of centuries of thanks and praise to offer her Lord.

In the garage, Maryanne sat back and tried to relax her shoulder muscles. She failed. Miserably.

The memory of J.Z. Prophet returned with the vengeance of hurricane-spurred ocean waves. What did the man want with her?

Because, without a shadow of a doubt, Maryanne knew J.Z. had come to Peaceful Meadows to keep tabs on her. What she didn’t know was why?

And she’d better figure it out soon…before it was too late.

For her.

At ten the next morning, Maryanne called the cell phone rep Trudy had recommended. In a few minutes’ time, she’d agreed to stop by the kiosk at the mall and sign a contract for a year’s worth of service. Next time J.Z. Prophet showed his face, she’d be ready. Her new phone came with preprogrammable automatic dialing.

The first number she’d record would be 911.

The day went by in the same kind of blur as when she drove home last night. By five, she didn’t remember much of what she’d done. Well, she turned in the report, but other than that…mush.

Determined to regain some semblance of sanity if not control, she concentrated on the drive to the mall. She even sang along with Rebecca St. James’s latest on the radio. She parked, locked the car, ran through the ongoing rain to the food-court entrance and made a beeline for the cell phone and safety.

The young man had the papers ready for her. All Maryanne had to do was sign her name and give him a check. After a handful of directions, she felt confident enough to head home with the gadget and its instruction manual. On her way back to the car, she detoured by the frozen yogurt counter. She didn’t often indulge, but today she ordered a swirl cone. She didn’t want to choose between chocolate and vanilla.

Because of the rain, she opted to finish her treat at one of the food court’s small tables. Then, on her way to the great outdoors and the deluge, she tossed away her napkin and saw the man watching her from the sandwich shop line. She came to a halt.

J.Z. Prophet wasn’t besting her again.

Maryanne marched up to him. “I told you I’d call the cops the next time I saw you.” She pulled out her phone. “Watch me.”

He covered the gadget and her hand with his much larger one, his clasp gentler than she would have imagined. “It won’t do you any good. I know what you are—”

“What are you doing, J.Z.?” asked the other Uni-Comp clown, a bag redolent of corned beef in his hand. “You’re worse than a kid. You can’t leave well enough alone, can you? Do you want Eliza to charge out here and tear a strip off your hide—”

He stopped just when things were about to get interesting, when Maryanne might have learned something about the probably psychotic J.Z. But the two men glared at each other, and if it weren’t for the minor matter of her captured hand, she would have taken her leave. Instead, she looked from one to the other, only too aware of J.Z.’s warm clasp.

“Ahem,” she said.

The men turned.

“Would one of you please tell me which episode of the Twilight Zone you’re rerunning here?”

“Let her go,” J.Z.’s partner said.

J.Z. captured her gaze just as firmly as he held her hand.