Deadly Purpose, page 4
***
Meg sat up and stretched, pausing to take stock. Muscles still ached, but not as bad. The headache was gone. Best of all, she’d slept soundly for the first time in months. She brought up her hand to push back the hair on her face, and was surprised to feel the short curls.
It occurred to her that there was an unnatural quiet in the cabin. In those long-ago summers she’d spent here with her father, her most vivid memories included waking to the sound of Steller’s jays, the quiet rush of Coldwater Creek as it made its way to the lake, and the whisper of the wind in the pines.
The half-light of early morning showed through a narrow gap in the curtains. Stepping into her boots, she crossed to a window and pulled aside the paisley material. What she saw had her rushing to throw open the front door, then she stood there, holding her breath. Snow blanketed everything. The rounded shape of her car looked like an Eskimo’s igloo. Branches of the tall pine trees sagged under the weight of the snowfall. She stepped out from under the porch and reached up to pull a branch closer. Snowflakes clung in individual, sparkling crystals. She gazed upward. Rose-tinted clouds glowed to the east, leaving the rest of the sky scrubbed clear by the storm.
Bending down, she scooped up a handful of snow, then gave in to the temptation to taste it with the tip of her tongue. Hmm, well, ice was ice. She packed the snow into a ball. Looking around for a good target, she stopped short at the sight of the tall, bearded man in many-pocketed cargo pants leaning against a post on the porch, the cat sitting regally next to him.
She jiggled the snowball, and he narrowed his eyes. “I wouldn’t.”
She giggled, surprising herself with the happy sound. “I’ve never had a snowball fight.”
“Well, you’re not having one now.”
Her hands were starting to freeze so she hurled the snowball at a tree trunk. “Spoilsport.” She gave a shiver as the icy breeze picked up.
“Right. You done playing in the snow?”
“Maybe.”
She mounted the steps to the porch and found herself stopping in front of him, that dark gaze holding hers. He raised a hand and stroked the back of a long finger down one cheek. When she sucked in a breath, he murmured, “Fever is gone.”
The heat in her belly, the surge in her heart rate, were warning enough that she needed to take a step back. A giant step. Mentally, as well as literally. He didn’t smile and his expression remained serious. He turned and Meg followed him into the cabin.
***
Head tilted back under the showerhead, Meg let hot water sluice over her body. A body that hadn’t felt this attracted to a man in a long time. She and Declan were circling around, each eyeing the other warily. Attraction simmered, at least on her part. He, on the other hand, didn’t give much away.
She poured shampoo into her palm, setting the tiny bottle back on the shelf next to the taller black bottle of guy shampoo. She worked up a lather, then began rinsing. Once she’d showered, they’d need to talk. The cabin had belonged to her father. She’d inherited it, but had yet to have the title transferred. And, added bonus, she’d never mentioned the cabin to Julius. With her new short hair rinsed clean and conditioned, she twisted off the taps and wrapped a towel around her sarong-style, then stepped out of the shower.
She caught her reflection in the mirror. Thankfully her cheeks held a bit more color so she didn’t look quite so waifish. She lifted the damp bangs. The bruise Declan had noticed had faded to less purple and more green. Julius had slipped up, giving her the impetus to leave.
She toweled off and dressed, not even bothering to wish for a hairdryer or styling product. She fluffed her curls the best she could before gathering her things and stepping out of the bathroom.
Declan sat at the small dining table, tapping on a laptop. Books and papers that had been on the table now sat piled on a chair against the wall. He glanced up when she hesitated next to the sofa.
“Coffee?” he asked. She nodded and he pointed toward the kitchen. “It’s brewed.”
She opened a cupboard and retrieved a mug. The sugar was still in the metal tin under the counter and she added a heaping spoonful before pouring in the coffee. She pulled a protein bar from her pocket as she sat across from him.
He frowned, returning to his habitually solemn expression. She wondered how he’d look if he actually smiled.
“You want cereal or toast or something?”
She shook her head and unwrapped the bar. Given the rinsed bowl and spoon on the counter, she guessed he’d opted for cereal.
The cat leapt onto her lap and kneaded its claws into her thigh, then settled into a furry ball. Charmed by the light purring, Meg stroked the soft head. “What’s your cat’s name?”
“She’s not my cat, and her name is BC.”
Still stroking the warm fur, she said, “She sure seems to think she’s your cat. And what does BC stand for?”
“She’s my niece’s cat, and BC stands for Buttercup.”
“So why don’t you call her Buttercup?”
He gave her a look and she smothered a laugh. “Oh, I see. Buttercup is too sweet a name for you to use.”
“Buttercup is a six-year-old’s name for a cat. There’s no dignity in it.”
“Hmm.” She bit off another chunk of her bar, chewing thoughtfully. They might as well get to it. “How come you’re in my cabin?”
“How come you think it’s your cabin?”
She swallowed, then said, “I inherited this cabin from my father. I’ll do the paperwork to put my name on the title soon. And don’t try to tell me I’ve got the wrong place. There’s a sign outside the front door I made in Girl Scouts, and you noticed and commented that I know where the bathroom is. This is my cabin.”
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Roy Evans.”
He froze with his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. He lowered it slowly back onto the table. “Roy Evans is dead?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Two months ago.”
His expression tightened, and he stared blankly past her for a long minute. “Son of a bitch.”
Chapter Four
“I’m sorry.” The gruff emotion in his voice had her staring at him with curiosity. “Roy Evans was a good man.”
“Yes, he was. You knew him?”
He lifted the cup and sipped his coffee before speaking. “You could say that.”
When he didn’t explain, she rolled her eyes. “Jeez, loosen up, will you? How did you know my dad?”
“Your dad and mine were in the Marine Corps and served together in Vietnam. Roy saved my dad’s life during the Easter Offensive in seventy-two.” Dark eyes watched her over the rim of the mug. “Any of that sound familiar?”
Meg shook her head.
“They kept touch sporadically after the war. I first met Roy when I was twenty-one.”
Because she knew so little of her father’s life, Meg had always hoarded the bits of information she did have. She’d known he’d served in the Marine Corps during the Vietnam War, but the Easter Offensive? She’d never heard of it. She filed away the new knowledge to be brought out later and examined. “That’s it?”
He studied her, and she wondered if he was looking for a resemblance to her father. He tapped his fingers on the table, the frown back in place. His expression made her think he was carefully picking his words, making her wonder what he didn’t want to reveal. “A year or so ago, I went to see him at that place where he was living in Santa Cruz. Can’t say he was happy, but he seemed content.”
“I hope he was.”
“He mentioned he’d reconnected with his daughter. Said he’d been a shitty father, and was glad you’d forgiven him.”
Carefully, she untwined her fingers. “I understood more of why he was so difficult to get along with after he was diagnosed with PTSD. When I was little, all I knew was that my dad wasn’t around. He was a lot older than my mom, almost twenty years. I don’t think he ever expected to have a kid. We lived in the Bay area, he lived in Los Angeles. But he came up here during his vacations, and from the time I was around nine until I was out of high school, I spent part of each summer with him.”
“He said his daughter was paying for the facility he was in.”
“Most of it was covered by his pension, but the rest I paid for. Regardless, you haven’t explained how you ended up at his cabin.”
He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right. I quit my job, needed to get my head together.” There was a long pause, and Meg had the feeling there was a whole book in what he wasn’t saying.
“I hadn’t talked to Roy in years, then out of the blue he calls. He was sick, so maybe it was his way of saying good-bye. Somehow we talked for an hour. He wanted me to stay at the cabin. Said the mountains would bring me peace, like they’d done for him, or some such shit.” He raised his shoulders in a shrug that for some reason made him look lonely. “Plus,” he continued, “he didn’t like leaving the place unoccupied. I wanted to pay rent but he wouldn’t take my money. We worked it out that I’d take care of whatever maintenance needed doing, and we’d call it even.” He gave her his direct look. “How come your last name’s not Evans?”
“How do you know it’s not?”
“I looked on your car registration.”
Not sure how she felt about that, she answered him. “Bennett is my mom’s last name. My parents never married.”
His fingers stopped their tapping, and his next question caught her off guard. “What are you running from?”
She responded carefully. “What makes you think I’m running from anything?”
“You’ve been living out of your car. The receipts in your glovebox show you’ve been paying cash for food and fuel. You’ve got a bruise on your forehead, and you’re so jumpy you drew down on me.”
Her stomach dropped as the markers fell in place. The practiced moves, the questions, the way he carried himself, all now made sense. “Damn. You’re a cop.”
His expression didn’t change.
“I’m right, aren’t I? You’re a cop, like my dad.”
“Used to be. Not anymore.”
She lurched to her feet, crossing to the sofa in the living room. Quickly, she rolled her sleeping bag, then began stuffing her belongings into her duffel.
“Hold on.” He came to stand across the coffee table from where she zipped the black bag closed with jerky movements. She crossed to the mantel and grabbed the .45 and stuffed it inside with everything else. “I want my ammo clip back.”
“No.”
She stared at him for a long minute, then whirled to the staircase. He’d taken the clip with him when he’d gone upstairs the night before. There was so much anger in her, her insides were shaking. Anger at herself for trusting him, for thinking she was safe to stay in the cabin with a stranger. She should have stuck with the lesson she’d learned long ago—trusting someone was asking to be taken advantage of.
She’d loved her father, but he’d never been someone who was there for her, whom she could rely on. There’d been that disastrous relationship in college, then another that had ended eighteen months ago when she’d discovered she and the guy had quite different understandings of exclusive, since his had included hooking up with his ex.
Her mother had been her rock, the one constant in her life. Her experiences with men, though, should have made her warier of Julius. Trusting him had turned into an utter disaster. What had started as her dream job had transformed into a situation that was not only dangerous, but that would in all likelihood result in her arrest. Lesson learned. Relying on herself was the only sure thing in life.
She pounded up the stairs to the loft, the sound of a heavy tread following her as she crossed the miniscule landing to the larger bedroom. She started with the nightstand, yanking open the drawer, pushing aside an unopened box of condoms, a couple of paperback novels, a book of crossword puzzles. “Excellent, you practice safe sex. Very smart. And crossword puzzles are good for your brain.”
Declan leaned against the door jamb regarding her with that steady dark gaze.
Next she tried the dresser, opening drawers, pushing aside socks, boxer shorts, t-shirts. She knelt to tug open the bottom drawer, then sat motionless. She recognized defeat when it stared her in the face. A black metal gun locker with a complicated-looking lock sat next to folded sweatshirts. It might as well have been a bank vault.
She stood to face him, crossing her arms in front of her to keep from giving in to the urge to pummel him senseless.
“I need my clip, then I’ll leave. You can forget you ever saw me.”
“Not likely.”
Not sure what he meant by that, she looked away, taking in her father’s old room that was now Declan’s. A photo showing a family with big smiles all around stood framed on the dresser. Whoever they were, Declan wasn’t the guy with the attractive wife and sweet-looking kids. Books crowded the shelves of the simple bookcase and looked like the same titles she and her dad had read together all those years ago. The Yearling, The Last of the Mohicans, Understood Betsy—books that had shaped her career path.
“Declan what?”
When she caught the raised brow, she elaborated. “Your last name—Declan what?”
“Murphy.”
“Middle name?”
“Michael.”
Definitely Irish. “Okay, Declan Michael Murphy, I want my clip back. I’m not staying here with a cop.” She frowned. “You knew my dad was a cop?”
He nodded. “Tell me what you’re running from.”
“Why? Are you going to rescue me? Protect me from my own personal bogeyman?”
“No.” He ran a hand over his beard. “I think you can probably take care of yourself when you’re not about to do a faceplant because you’re sick. But if someone is after you, if you need help, you should see Chief Gallagher. He’ll be straight with you.”
Her brief laugh held no amusement. “I’m not spilling my guts to a cop. I tried that before and nothing good came of it. I dug myself a hole and I have to get out of it without bringing anyone else down with me.” She rose to her feet, mind flitting from option to option, trying to assess all the variables, to figure out a way to stay safe. And how to stay out of jail long enough to finish disbursing the money.
“Regardless, you’re staying put until the roads are plowed.”
Crap. She’d forgotten about the snow. Meg paused at the door. “When will that be?”
“This far from town, and with more snow on the way? Not today.”
Meg crossed to the window to pull back the curtain. Where the sky had been clear an hour earlier, clouds were again crowding over the mountains. Damn. Declan should be the one leaving, not her. Could her luck get any worse? Not only was her cabin, her refuge, occupied by an unwanted intruder, but the guy was a cop. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t still in law enforcement. That mind-set didn’t change just because he’d stopped wearing a badge.
Declan disappeared and the sound of his footsteps receded down the stairs. Meg dropped onto the bed, fingering the old patchwork quilt covering it, the one her father had said his mother had made, a grandmother she had never met.
She rose and crossed the landing to the tiny bedroom that had once been hers. Pushing open the door and flipping on the light, she took in furnishings that hadn’t changed in a dozen years. The simple twin bed with its knotty pine headboard, the low dresser, the lamp with a checkered shade. Framed photos adorned the walls, images she’d taken the summer Roy had bought her a secondhand 35 mm camera.
She pulled open a dresser drawer to find it full of cards and letters and snapshots. Rifling through them, she pulled a few out to examine. Then huffed out a surprised breath. They were all from her. Her father must have kept everything she’d ever sent him. Only recently had her understanding of his PTSD given her some insight into why their relationship had been so limited. He’d appeared to enjoy having her visit him during the summers, but he’d refused invitations to attend her high school and college graduations, and he’d sent cards sporadically on her birthdays.
Heart heavy, wishing things had been different between them, she opened other drawers. She recognized the sweaters and sweatshirts from when she’d been a teenager. The closet revealed a windbreaker and a rain jacket, apparel more appropriate for the summers she spent with her father in the Sierras than the current snowy autumn. On the top shelf sat a couple of board games and the chess set that had occupied her and her dad over many quiet evenings.
She sniffled, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, and took a deep breath, holding it before letting it out slowly through pursed lips. Despite his limited role in her life, her father had loved her, and that made what she had done to ease his last year worth the price she continued to pay.
Meg descended the stairs to find Declan sitting at the table, laptop open in front of him. Just because he was a cop didn’t mean she had to tell him anything. He ignored her, continuing to tap away on the keyboard, and, resigned to the fact that neither one of them was leaving any time soon, she curled up on the sofa, legs drawn under her.
Staring into the fire, she pondered her course of action.
She wanted to use her laptop, and figured Declan had set up a router with WiFi. If she used it to continue the disbursement, however, the transactions could be traced to his IP address. For herself, it didn’t matter, because before any of Julius’s worker bees had time to trace her location, she’d turn herself in to the police. But she didn’t want her actions to expose Declan to danger. There was a chance, though, that he’d already taken steps to hide his IP address. Cops were cagey like that.
“Question.”
He paused, fingers poised over the keyboard. “What?” The clipped tone sounded distracted.
“Have you concealed your IP address?”
The look he gave her held all sorts of loaded questions, but all he said was, “Yes.”
“Would you mind giving me your WiFi password?”
