Colder Than Ice. Maggie Shayne
her while applying for a job as a substitute teacher at the high school.
His false credentials had impressed the office staff, and by the time they got around to checking them out, his work here would be done. After all, his claims put him far above what was required of substitute teachers.
His résumé ought to put him at the top of the list, if they even had a list.
List or no list, you will be the one they call. We’ll see to that.
You have to stop doubting us, Mordecai.
Yes, stop doubting us. All is in place. All we need now is for one of the regular teachers to get too sick to come in to work.
“Here we are,” Nancy said, as they walked into a courtyard with round concrete tables, benches and planters situated every where. “This spot’s reserved for staff and seniors. And the staff know when the seniors have their lunch period,” she added with a smile. “It’s nice, don’t you think?”
“Particularly without the seniors present.” He laughed softly, setting her picnic basket on the nearest table, lifting the lid and beginning to unload dishes.
She sat down beside him. “I was surprised when you asked me to join you for lunch today, Oliver.”
“Now why should that surprise you?” He pulled out the bottle of sparkling grape juice, removed the cork with a flourish and poured juice into stemmed, plastic wineglasses.
“Well, I’m not exactly used to the attention of men.”
“Then the men around here must be stupider than I imagined.” He handed her a glass. “To the beginning of a lovely friendship, and the promise that, next time, the wine will be real.” He held his glass toward her.
She tapped hers against it, took a sip and smiled.
Mordecai smiled back, glancing down at the sectioned plates with their air-lock plastic lids, specially designed for packing picnic lunches. He removed the lid from the first one, and with his hands still hidden inside the basket, twisted the cap off the vial he’d palmed and emptied its contents onto the salad. Then he picked up the plate and set it gently in front of her. “Ah, this looks wonderful, my dear.”
“It’s my special ambrosia salad, chicken coq au vin—albeit cold—antipasto, and a homemade double chocolate brownie for dessert.”
“My goodness! You’re a goddess.”
She smiled as he passed her a napkin-wrapped set of silverware. “I don’t eat like this every day, mind you. But I thought today it would be all right to forget about my diet.”
“Diet? Please, you’re perfect. A Botticelli nude.”
“Oh, my.” She averted her eyes as her cheeks went pink.
Mordecai pocketed the empty vial and casually cleaned his hands with an antibacterial wipe he’d brought along. Then he removed the lid from his own plate, set the basket on the ground and dug into his meal with relish.
She dug into hers, as well. Poor stupid woman.
Chapter Two
Joshua Kendall walked into Maude Bickham’s house in a state of shock. The woman, Beth Slocum, the resemblance…No, no, it was more than a resemblance. She was identical to the girl his bullet had torn apart eighteen years ago. The girl who’d lain in a deep coma as he sat by her bed, wishing he could change places with her. The girl he’d been told had no chance of surviving.
She was older, of course. The eyes he’d only seen closed in mindless slumber had a few lines at their corners that hadn’t been there before. God, how he’d longed to see them open, to know their color.
He knew it now. Emerald green, like the Gulf of Mexico at midsummer.
The round cheeks of youth had been replaced by sharper angles, but there was no question she was the same person.
He stumbled into the house, barely seeing where he was going, so many questions were whirling through his mind.
“Well, there you are. My goodness, I almost lost it out there. I have to tell you, son, I’m not used to telling lies.”
“You, uh…you did fine, Maude.”
“Well, it’s well worth it, if it’s to help protect Beth from whatever shadows she’s been running from. Like I always say, ‘You have to crush some tomatoes to get any sauce.’ This won’t wash for long, though. There are folks in this town have known me far longer than Beth has. Oh, I can put ’em off for a while. Sam and I were old enough when we bought this place that any kids we might have had would have been grown. Most folks don’t know we never had any. All but Frankie, anyway. She won’t be so easily—what is it, Joshua? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I…” He gave his head a shake and forced himself to pay attention to the woman. “It was a long drive. I guess I’m tired out.”
“Well, then, go on up to your room. I’ve put you in the blue room, and your boy in the one beside you. Go left at the top of the stairs. It’s the second door on the right.”
“Thanks.”
He took her advice and sought out the privacy of his bedroom. And the first thing he did was to make a phone call to Arthur Stanton, his longtime mentor, former superior officer, and the man who’d hired him for this job. Arthur was out. His machine told Josh to leave a message.
Josh held the phone to his ear, staring out the bedroom window. Down there on the scraggly lawn, a ghost was talking to his son. A woman who was supposed to be dead. He should know, he thought. He’d killed her himself.
“Arthur, it’s Joshua. Call me back and tell me what the hell is going on. Is this woman—is she—Jesus, Art, what are you doing to me here?”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Not even when the image of the girl she had been when he’d seen her last overlaid the scene below in his mind. He saw her as she had been: pale, far too thin, barely seventeen. Wires taped to her temples and forehead, and running from underneath her clothes. Tubes in her wrists and mouth. White sheets, white hospital gown, white skin. The damned incessant beeping of the heart monitor that sounded sluggish and slow.
A lot of kids had been caught in the cross fire when federal agents raided the Young Believers’ Compound eighteen years ago. But most of the bodies burned in the holocaust that followed.
Hers hadn’t.
Josh had been an ATF agent then, overzealous and eager to be a hero. And maybe a little too quick to fire back at the muzzle flashes coming from the compound. Ballistics matched the bullet that took her out with Joshua’s own rifle. When Josh had gone to the hospital to see her, they’d told him she wouldn’t live out the week.
She’d been haunting him ever since.
It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be. Not like this, strong, older…alive, running now down the tree-lined lane, her strides powerful and confident. It couldn’t be her.
There was a knock on his door. “Dad?”
He shook himself, opened it. Bryan stood there with a large red-white-and-blue envelope in his hands. “Mailman was just here. Left this for you. It came express, so I figured it was important.”
He took it, eyed the return address.
“It’s from that guy who hired you—Arthur Stanton.”
The man who was like a father to him. The man he trusted, had always trusted, even after the raid.
“He was your boss when you were in the ATF, you said.”
Josh nodded. He’d been fired, because the nation needed a scapegoat. Not that he hadn’t been guilty—just no guiltier than every other man on the strike team that day. Art had been too well respected to be fired; he’d been moved, instead. Lost his command, gotten stuck behind