Читать книгу Army Ranger Redemption - Carol Ericson - Страница 12

Chapter Three

Scarlett swallowed as she studied the dead man’s face, half obscured by his bushy beard and mustache, some sort of tattoo creeping up his neck with an L and a C intertwined. She’d never been a portraitist, but if she had been she’d want this guy’s likeness on canvas. Even in death, he wore his life story on his face, etched in every line and wrinkle.

She blew out a breath. “I don’t know him. Jim?”

“Never saw him before in my life.”

The EMT tugged the sheet back over the man’s face and loaded him into the ambulance.

Unger returned with his deputies. “The county sheriff’s department should be out here shortly, Scarlett. They don’t need to disturb you tonight, but the lead detective will probably want to talk to both of you tomorrow. Going anywhere, Kennedy?”

“I’m staying at my...my place.”

Scarlett glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. The Kennedy cabin had been the closest residence to hers, but nobody had lived there since she’d bought the Butler place. Apparently, Jim Kennedy, the town enigma, had been off to war with the army rangers all these years.

When the EMT had lifted the covers on the dead man, Jim had moved away from her. She hadn’t minded his arm draped over her shoulders or the solid presence of his muscular frame, although she’d never been one to lean on a man. Her own father had died in a car accident along with her mother, and her uncle had been a black sheep, ostracized from the reservation.

She scooped her hair back from her face. “I’m going to call it a night. Tell those county deputies they can talk to me anytime they want, but mornings are best, before I get to work.”

Unger smacked the side of the ambulance as its engine started. “I’m going to back out and let these guys out of here, but I’m sticking around to wait for the county guys.”

“Okay if I leave, Unger?” Jim shoved his hands into his pockets where he must’ve still had his weapon stashed.

If the man had been shot instead of stabbed, would Jim have told Unger about his gun? If he had a gun, maybe he had a knife.

Scarlett closed her eyes and dragged in a deep breath. Nothing about Jim screamed cold-blooded killer, but she couldn’t shake the coincidence of his appearance followed by the discovery of a dead body on her property.

“You can leave. Again, just be available in case anyone wants to ask you any more questions.”

Scarlett pivoted on the gravel. “Hope you can figure out what happened to that poor man.”

Jim drew up beside her with his flashlight. “I’ll walk you back to your place, if that’s okay.”

“If you want, but I think I’ll be fine with half the Timberline Sheriff’s Department on my property and the county sheriffs showing up in a few.”

“I can take a look around and check your doors and windows—for when all those deputies leave.”

A little chill zapped the back of her neck, and she hunched her shoulders. “That’s a creepy thought.”

“Not my intention to scare you, but sometimes a little fear is a good thing.”

They returned to her cabin and Jim flicked the broken dead bolt. “You can start here by getting this replaced, and you might want a peephole in the door so you don’t have to look out that window.”

“Funny enough, I noticed those deficiencies myself when you banged on my door.”

“Why don’t you give me a tour?”

She spread her arms. “This is the great room, perfect for entertaining three guests at one time.”

His lips twisted as he checked the front window. Then he moved to the other two. “At least they all have working locks.”

“At least?”

“Anyone can smash a window.”

“Thanks for that.”

“But then you’d wake up and the intruder would lose his advantage, and you could always come at him with this.” He strolled to the fireplace and replaced the poker she’d snatched for her defense when he’d first come to her place. “Do you have a gun?”

“A gun? I hate guns.”

He pulled his own gun from his pocket and caressed the handle. “You hate guns because you’re afraid of them. If you learned how to take care of a gun and all the safety measures associated with gun ownership, you might feel differently.”

Shaking her head, she gritted her teeth. “I doubt it. Almost everyone around here has at least a shotgun and spends a lot of their time hunting defenseless animals.”

“I agree. You don’t have anything to fear from a wild animal.” He returned his gun to his pocket. “I spent my time in the army hunting a different kind of animal—definitely not defenseless.”

“You used to hunt, though, didn’t you?” She snapped her fingers. “That’s why you became a sniper. You were a great shot.”

“Something like that.” He pointed toward the kitchen. “Do you have a back door?”

“Two of them—a side door off the kitchen and then a back door from the addition. That’s another thing I liked about this cabin. The Butlers had added a room to the back of the house, which made a perfect studio.”

He checked the kitchen door and tapped the wood. “You need a dead bolt on this door, too.”

“I’ll get someone out to do both doors, same key.”

He stood in the middle of her kitchen, dwarfing it. He’d even been buff as a teenager. Instead of playing team sports for the high school, Jim had spent his time working out and lifting weights.

From the way his shoulders filled out his jacket, he hadn’t given up the weights.

“You know what you need in this kitchen?”

“Besides a twenty-four-hour chef?”

“A landline telephone. You can’t keep running to the end of the road in an emergency.”

She hunched over the kitchen counter, planting her elbows on the tile. “I came back here, bought this cabin to get away from it all, to work, not to get all plugged in.”

“After what just happened out there—” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder “—you need to think about your safety.”

She widened her eyes. “Why? Do you think there’s a serial killer on the loose or something? I’m not happy that someone died outside my cabin, but I don’t think it has anything to do with me. From the looks of the guy, it could’ve been a bar fight or drug related.”

Jim straightened up so fast from where he’d been bent over looking for a phone jack, he almost hit his head on the bottom of the cabinet.

“Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know. He looked a little rough around the edges, could’ve been using.”

“The point is, we don’t know his story.” He limped from the kitchen and tipped his chin toward the short hallway. “Okay if I take a look in the other rooms?”

“There are just the two bedrooms. You already visited the one bathroom, and then the room at the end of the hall—my studio.”

He pushed into the bathroom and placed his palms flat against the small, beveled-glass window. “Someone can slide this up and out. You can buy a rod to put across the top of the slider to prevent that, or you can even use a pencil.”

“Good idea. I never realized how unsafe I was before.”

“You never found a dead body on your property before—have you?”

“That was a first, although I guess it’s not all that rare for Timberline cabins to be housing dead bodies. Did you hear about Jordan Young killing his mistress twenty-five years ago and stuffing her body in the chimney of his cabin?” She sucked in a breath between her teeth and shivered.

“I read about the whole thing online when I got here. So much for peaceful little Timberline.”

He checked the windows in the guest bedroom, and then she led him to her own room. As he took a turn around the bedroom, she actually blushed—not out of modesty but because she’d just had a sudden vision of this man spread out on her bed.

“You should keep these closed at night.” He yanked the curtains together and she jumped. “Are you still nervous?”

“It’s not every day someone is murdered in your neighborhood.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. She should be feeling more anxious about that instead of daydreaming about Jim Kennedy in all his naked glory. She’d put it down to shock.

He tilted his head and that lock of dark hair fell over one eye—just like in high school. “Let’s take a look at that back door.”

As she led him to her studio, she clasped her hands in front of her, twirling her ring around her middle finger. She usually didn’t invite people into her inner sanctum, unless they were other artists. Not even potential clients saw her workspace.

Dragging in a breath, she threw open the door and flicked on the light.

Jim froze at the doorway, his mouth hanging slightly ajar. “I’ve never seen anything like this before in my life.”

“Well—” she waved her arms around “—it’s an artist’s studio.”

“You’re very...productive.” He swiveled his head from side to side, taking in the work on the walls, canvases stacked in the corner and unfinished pieces languishing on easels stationed around the room. “And kind of schizophrenic.”

“I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

“You’ve got normal stuff over here—” he flung out his right arm “—and...different kind of stuff over here.”

“Landscape watercolors on the right and modern, abstract oils on the left.”

“Let me guess.” He pointed to a painting comprising of skyscrapers, a pair of eyes and a wolf head. “This is the expensive stuff.”

“Good guess.” She held her breath waiting for him to ask her to explain the painting.

He studied it for several seconds with his head to one side and then shrugged. “This room isn’t secure at all.”

She released the breath. “Because of the glass wall.”

“It must look incredible during the day, but at night anybody could peer right into this room. If you keep expensive work in here, I’d think you’d want to protect it better.”

“This is Timberline. I really didn’t expect to move back here and experience a crime wave.” She rapped on the glass. “What do you suggest?”

“This is the back door?” He navigated through the easels and stands and yanked on the handle of the sliding glass door. He crouched down and inspected the track. “You can put a rod in here for an extra measure of safety in case someone breaks the lock. A camera wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.”

Twisting her braid around her hand, she sighed. “I might as well go back to the big city.”

“That man who died tonight probably has nothing to do with you.”

“Don’t try to make me feel better now after you just did a security check on my home...and found it woefully inadequate.”

“Problem is, we don’t know what he was doing out there, why he was killed or who killed him.”

He straightened up, grasping the door handle for support. She would’ve offered a hand, but Jim didn’t seem like the type of man who would accept assistance easily.

“Hopefully the county sheriff’s department can figure that out. I don’t need any more people lurking around my cabin, causing trouble.”

“Jordan Young was after that TV reporter, not you, right?”

“Jordan turned out to be Beth St. Regis’s biological father. He’d murdered her mother, his mistress, twenty-five years ago and sold Beth on the black market when she was a baby. He just turned his attentions toward me because I was helping Beth.” She shivered and pressed her hands against her stomach. “Pure evil.”

“He figured if anyone noticed his daughter’s disappearance, he could pass it off as another Timberline kidnapping?”

“Something like that, but nobody noticed the disappearance of mother and daughter since Beth’s mother had moved away after the pregnancy and had just returned to Timberline. Young had kept them hidden away in his cabin until he killed Angie, Beth’s mother.”

“Makes you wonder.” He shoved one hand in his pocket and stared out the wall of windows at the forest lurking in the darkness beyond.

“Wonder what?”

“If there was an active black market for children, maybe that’s what happened to the Timberline Trio.”

“Not you, too.” She shut off the light in the studio. “Ever since Wyatt Carson kidnapped those three children to recreate the Timberline Trio so he could play the hero, everyone and his brother have been snooping around looking into the Timberline Trio case.”

“You think that’s a bad idea?” He’d turned from the window and his eyes glimmered in the dark room.

“It’s over.” She’d never admit to him that she had her own reasons for finding out what had happened twenty-five years ago. She’d never admit that to anyone, since curiosity about the case seemed to put a target on your back.

He said, “I suppose it’s never over for the families. Look what it did to Wyatt Carson. Losing his younger brother like that must’ve jarred something loose in his psyche for him to go on and kidnap those children years later.”

“You’re right.” She stepped back into the light from the hallway. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but...”

“You’re Quileute.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She jutted out her chin.

“Just that I know your people had some fears and superstitions around the whole Timberline Trio case.” He held up his hands. “Hey, they weren’t the only ones.”

As far as she could recall, Jim never had a problem with the Quileute, but his father was another story—loudmouthed bigot. Members of her tribe had been in a few barroom brawls with Slick Kennedy.

He’d gotten the nickname Slick because of his movie-star handsomeness and pumped-up physique. Her gaze tracked over Jim as he stood in the middle of the room, and she swallowed. The apple hadn’t fallen too far from that tree.

But Jim had never been in any trouble with her people, although all the guys her age had been wary of him because of his father, his brother and his father’s buddies—beer-drinking, bigoted bikers.

She lifted and dropped her shoulders quickly. “Yeah, there were some crazy stories going around at the time.”

He crossed the room and joined her at the door. “Anyway, you might want to look into securing this place better—at least until the deputies can figure out why that man dropped dead in the woods outside your cabin.”

“I’ll do that, thanks.” She closed the door to the studio. Halfway down the hallway, she turned suddenly and Jim bumped into her. She placed a palm against his chest where his heart thundered beneath her touch. “Sorry.”

His body tensed as he stepped away from her, and she dropped her hand.

“What are you doing back here, Jim?”

His lids lowered over his eyes and he studied her from beneath his thick, dark lashes. “Trying to get away from it all, just like you.”

She blinked and turned, calling over her shoulder. “How long have you been out of the army?”

“Over a year.”

“Is that...is that what happened to your leg?”

“Long story.”

It didn’t sound like he had any intention of sharing it with her. Maybe he’d loosen up after a few beers or a shot of whiskey.

When they reached the living room, he made a beeline for the front door. “See you around.”

Scarlett blinked. “I was going to offer you something for your trouble tonight and for staying with me. Beer? Coffee?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Now it seemed as if he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. Must’ve thought she was prying into his business. She followed him to the front door, which he’d already opened.

He stepped out onto the dark porch.

“Oops, I turned off my porch light. Be careful. I have some plants...”

As he turned, Jim tripped over one of the pots and stumbled down the two steps, falling to the ground.

He cursed on his way down and landed with a thud in the dirt.

“I’m so sorry.” Scarlett switched on the porch light and flew down the steps. As she lowered herself to the bottom step to help Jim, his bare back, exposed by his shirt hiking up, drew her gaze.

Shock tingled through her body as she saw the edge of Jim’s tattoo—an L and a C curled together—just like the tattoo on the dead man.