Deadline

“But suppose she finds out that we were there that night?” Lester fired back, the panic building again.

“She won’t.”

“But what if she does? I’m not going to sit around and do nothing if she comes after me.”

“She’s not going to come after you.”

“How do you know?” Lester asked.

“Because I’ll take care of her. In the meantime you need to keep your mouth shut. And don’t call me again.”

Then the line went dead.

Lester stood there listening to the dial tone. “Self-righteous prick. I’ll show you. I’ll show all of you,” he yelled into the receiver before he slammed it down onto the phone hook so hard that it fell off. Not bothering to pick up the receiver that dangled from the aluminum cording like a doll’s arm, Lester stormed away. He stuffed his curled fists into the pockets of his jacket and headed for his truck.

He climbed inside the dirty old pickup, too angry to notice the torn seats, the empty beer cans on the floorboards, the overloaded ashtray or the stench of cigarettes and fast food. He grabbed one of the two remaining beers, popped the top and chugged it down to calm his nerves. When he finished, he threw the can on the floor and then reached for the last one. He opened it, drained half the can, then leaned his head back against the seat. Closing his eyes, he sighed as he felt the buzz start up again.

When he opened his eyes again, he took another swig of beer. Then he pulled the crumpled gas receipt from his pocket and smoothed it out. For a moment, he remembered looking into those spooky gray eyes again and his hand trembled. “Not a ghost,” he reminded himself, shaking off the attack of nerves.

He hit the interior light switch of the truck, but nothing happened. Then he remembered the thing had been out for months. Lester angled the piece of paper near the dashboard so that the overhead light from the parking lot fell on it. Squinting his eyes, he could barely make out the name stamped on the receipt because the inked copy was so faint. “T. Abbott,” he read the name aloud. At least that’s what it looked like to him.

“Abbott,” he repeated as he sat back in his seat and took another swallow of beer to steady his nerves. Why did that name sound familiar? he wondered. But the buzz in his head was getting louder and his limbs were feeling looser. He’d remember later he promised himself, and started up the truck’s engine.

Maybe he’d go by his sister Doreen’s tomorrow. Her kid had a computer. Could find out all kinds of stuff on a computer these days. With a name and credit card number, he could probably even find the bitch’s bra size. Laughing out loud at his own joke, Lester pulled the pickup truck out of the parking lot and onto the road.

Yep, that’s what he’d do. He’d go to Doreen’s and tell her he was hunting for a job out of state. Yeah, she’d buy that. She was always after him to clean up his act and get a good job.

And once he found out who the woman was, he’d call that asshole and rub his arrogant nose in the information. He’d show him. He’d show them all. Lester De Roach wasn’t no fool. He was smart. Just as smart as the rest of them. And just like the last time, he’d be the one who saved all their asses. Only this time they were going to have to pay him for his help.

He put the beer can to his lips and drained what was left in it. Wishing he’d thought to grab an extra six-pack from the Quick Stop since the kid had let him go without paying, he debated going back now, but decided against it. No point in pushing his luck. The kid might ask him to pay for what he’d already drunk. So he continued on and headed for the battered unpaved road that led to his own place.

When he reached it, the tires on the truck hit the deep ruts in the road, jostling him. As something furry dashed across the road to the other side, Lester swerved hard, hit another rut in the road and ran the truck into a tree. “Damn rabbits and coons.” He’d have to get his rifle and go hunting soon or the varmints were going to take over the place.

Putting the truck in Reverse, he sent the tires spinning as he hit the gas pedal, then he jerked the gearshift into forward. In need of another beer, he hit the gas pedal harder and sped toward home. As he did so, he kept thinking about Melanie Burns and those spooky ghost-gray eyes.

Seated at his desk, he hung up the phone and skimmed down the Mississippi government’s Web site, clicking on the bio for Senator Theodore Abbott. Skipping over his political accomplishments, he went straight to the personal data. And there it was, the name Tess Abbott, listed as the granddaughter he and Mrs. Abbott had raised, now working as a TV investigative reporter in Washington, D.C.

After jotting down the station’s name, he exited the site and typed in Washington, D.C., then the station’s name. When the Web site popped up, he scrolled over to the news-staff listing and clicked on the icon marked Tess Abbott. He stared at the smiling female whose image filled the screen.

Damned if De Roach hadn’t been right, he thought. The girl did have Melanie Burns’s eyes. Picking up one of the prepaid cell phones he kept for just this type of occasion, he dialed a private number, which was answered on the second ring.

“Yes?”

“We may have ourselves a little problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Another loose end,” he explained. “One that talks too much and could be damaging to you.”

“You assured me that Jody Burns was the only loose end we had to worry about—that when he killed himself this would be over.”

“I thought it would be, but something else has come up. It’s nothing I can’t handle as long as no one starts spilling their guts. I can take care of it for you.”

“How much will it cost me this time?”

“The same as last time.”

The other man swore. “All right. Take care of it.”

“Since it’s so close to home, I’m going to bring in an associate to handle it.” While he hated giving up any of the money and could easily handle the situation himself, he opted to play it safe. That idiot De Roach may have called him from someplace where the number could be traced back to him, and this was no time to take chances. “But don’t worry, it won’t cost you any more.”

“You can afford it with what I’m paying you.”

It was true, he admitted to himself with a smile. The association the two of them had formed all those years ago had afforded him a good life—a life he had no intention of giving up just because De Roach was a loose-lipped drunk.

“Whatever you do, just make sure that you keep my name out of it.”

When the line went dead, he sat back in his chair. Unlocking his desk drawer, he retrieved the small black book he kept hidden in a secret compartment. He dialed another number, safe in the knowledge that the call was routed through an intricate untraceable network system across the country.

“Father Peter.”

The man smiled at the irony. “Father, I have a donation for the church. I’d like you to say a mass for a sick friend.”

“And what is the name of your sick friend, my son?”

“Lester De Roach.” He’d long admired the creativity of the man who made the contracting of a hit sound like a donation to a religious group.

“And did you have a particular mass that you want me to remember him in?” he asked.

“Tomorrow if possible. Or just as soon as you can.”

“Consider it done. I’ll remember him in my morning prayers,” he promised.

“Thank you, Father Peter. I’ll put the donation in the mail to you in the morning.”

“It’s my pleasure to be of service, my son. God be with you.”

He hung up the phone and smiled again. This time tomorrow Lester De Roach would be with God or, more likely, with his counterpart in hell.

Tess braked when she approached the first red light. As she waited for the light to change to green, she opened the candy bar and bit off a chunk. The calorie-laden chocolate was just what she needed to give her the energy to make the rest of the trip.

When the signal flashed green, Tess continued through the next two lights, traveling along rolling hills and quiet streets. The sliver of a moon and the stars that she’d noted before stopping for gas seemed to have ducked behind a blanket of clouds, making the night sky even darker. Unlike the big city, there were no neon signs flashing every few yards, and only an occasional lamppost on a street corner provided light.

Finally, she saw the sign that read Magnolia Lane and flicked on her turn signal. And the moment she turned onto the lane, Tess knew she’d made the right decision in choosing the quaint-sounding guesthouse over the two hotels in town. As she drove down the road toward the main house, she felt as though she’d stepped back in time. There at the end of the road, resting atop a bluff and surrounded by trees, was a picture-perfect Victorian house. Painted all in white, curved brackets framed the inviting front porch. As she drew the car to a stop, Tess noted the cane rockers, also painted white, that dotted the porch. She could easily imagine herself sitting there in the summertime, sipping glasses of lemonade to beat the heat.

She shut off the engine. For several moments, she sat there, staring at the house and taking in the details. Open shutters surrounded the multipaned French-style windows, giving the house an added charm and a sense of protection. She knew a little about architecture, and she recognized the columns that braced the roof of the porch were a Queen Anne design. Exiting the car, Tess continued to admire the house. She noted that the mill-work on the base of the columns featured a cloverleaf theme that had also been adapted for the rafter tails and the post brackets. The white-on-white scheme pulled it all together, giving the building a sense of unity. At the bottom of the porch, white and yellow chrysanthemums had been planted along the border of a white wooden skirt that echoed the same detailing on the house. Five wooden steps led up to the porch, where white flower boxes placed on either side of each window were filled with more lush, yellow chrysanthemums.

Suddenly eager to go inside and see the rest of the place, Tess popped the lock on the trunk of the car and hurried to the rear to gather her bags. With her suitcase and computer travel case in tow, she headed up the stairs and into the guesthouse. It was like walking into someone’s home—someone’s beautiful antebellum home, Tess amended. The floors were made of polished oak. An heirloom rug filled the center of the floor. On it rested an antique table with a cut-glass vase filled with fresh white roses.