Recovered Secrets. Jessica R. Patch
TWO
Hollis hit the door running when the first shot cracked through the air and was at Grace’s front door as she screamed for him. “I’m here,” he called and slid across the floor to her. “Stay low.” He glanced into her bedroom and did a double take. A body lay on the floor. “Who is that?”
“Peter Rainey,” she breathed, her face deathly pale.
“You remember?” Had memories surfaced in the last ten minutes? Questions would have to wait. He needed to get Grace to safety. Hopefully, the shooter wouldn’t open fire on people in a public place. It was his only chance. Once she was out of danger, he would inspect the woods, then find out who the dead guy was in her bedroom. They huddled on the floor for several moments. The gunfire had ceased. The shooter could be changing positions, windows. Getting a better line of fire. Was it one of those men from earlier or someone new?
The woods covered the south of her house. North was the inn. No decent place there to find accurate cover or to get a good shot. “We’re going out the front door and making a dash to the inn. You ready?”
“Not really,” she groused. “But let’s go.”
“One, two, three!” He hauled her up but kept her hunched as he shielded her with his body. They sprinted across the wet walkway to the inn. Inside he slammed the door and kicked a kitchen chair into the corner. No windows. No easy target. He lowered her into the chair. Grace’s face retained the muddy streaks from earlier and strands of dark hair had come loose from its bun, sticking to her neck.
“I want you to stay here. I’ll be right back.” Hollis gripped Grace’s shoulders. “Promise me.”
She nodded as Tish entered the kitchen. “What in the world is going on? I heard the door slam and a ruckus in here...”
“Grace is in danger, Tish.” He gave her the short version, and with every word her face blanched even further until she looked like a walking snowdrift. “I believe she’ll be okay since the inn is full of people—though I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but still...keep an eye out.” He looked at Grace. “Call the sheriff. Chances are no one paid attention to the shots.” Gunfire wasn’t unfamiliar in the South, in this town—even Tish hadn’t been drawn into the kitchen from the gunfire, but from their commotion. “I’ll be back.” Hollis wanted his own time to search and he’d have it if he moved fast. Probably the SEAL in him, but he wanted dibs on any clues that might give them more information on the deceased and Grace’s identity.
Grace nodded.
“We’ll be fine.” Tish headed for the cherry-red tea kettle on the stove.
Tish had mettle and Hollis loved her for it. He retrieved his ankle weapon and slipped outside into the woods. After about five minutes, he found one man’s footprints in the mud. Fairly large. Hollis aimed his Glock toward the garden house. Perfect angle. Clean shot. Good distance away. No casings. Looked like the shooter had collected the brass, meaning he might be and probably was a professional.
He followed the prints about a mile until they tracked to an old back road. The shooter either cased the place for a few days, finding the best way to enter and escape undetected, or he was familiar with the area—a local or someone who frequented Cottonwood. The inn was rife with businessmen and women who’d rather stay in a cozy home for a week than an impersonal hotel. But why would a local want to hurt Grace or kill Peter Rainey? And who?
He hurried to Grace’s, wiping his muddy boots on her mat, then he entered. Under her sink he found a pair of yellow cleaning gloves and slid his hands into them, then he strode into the bedroom. He studied the scene. The last thing Hollis wanted to do was move the body, but he needed to inspect the wound. The air smelled like iron and Grace’s vanilla candles. Appeared to be a rifle shot. A possible sniper.
He carefully rummaged through pockets, searching for identification, credit cards, anything. The only thing on the man was a wallet with two hundred bucks and a single peppermint in his right jean pocket. Who traveled with no identification?
Someone who didn’t want to reveal their identity.
What had Grace been immersed in? He’d suspected an abusive relationship, and that was still a possibility, though it seemed much slimmer with the earlier attack and now this.
Hollis used his cell phone camera and snapped a picture of the guy, then swept the perimeter. No sign of danger. Back inside, Grace’s face and hands were clean and she’d redone the bun; this time it was higher on her head. Tish sat beside her with a cup of tea as they murmured to one another.
“I just hung up with Sheriff Freeman.” Grace stood, hope and dread vied for first place in her gaze. “What did you find?”
Hollis hated being the bearer of bad news. “Nothing. Let’s go through his room before Sheriff Freeman arrives. We don’t have much time.” Once Cord Freeman showed up, which could be any minute, Hollis feared he’d be out of the loop. Even if they worked closely on occasional rescue missions, Cord was a stickler for rules. Hollis might have to bend some in order to protect Grace and he didn’t want anyone—not even Cord—standing in the way. He turned to Tish. “Can we have a pair of those latex gloves you clean with?”
Tish made haste and gave him a pair, worry in her eyes. Hollis laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.” He kept saying that, but the truth was he had no idea if it was or not. “Come on.” He gave the gloves to Grace. She followed him through the dining area, into the foyer and to the front entrance where the stairs were located. They climbed up and around to the second floor. Found Peter Rainey’s room and entered. Tish said he’d arrived late last night.
“Did you find a driver’s license?” Grace asked as she opened and closed drawers. Hollis spotted a rolling suitcase in the corner of the room. Carry-on size.
“No. He had a wallet but only cash inside. Odd, don’t you think?” He carefully unzipped the black Samsonite carry-on bag. A pair of jeans. Button-down shirt. Socks...toiletry bag.
“It is odd.” Grace finished with the dresser and headed for the chest of drawers. “He told me that he calls me ‘Mad Max’ as a nickname. What does that mean?”
Hollis paused perusing the suitcase and glanced at Grace. Mad Max was a cop who’d lost his son and sought revenge. He was a wild card, but excellent at his job. “It’s from a movie. A series of movies. Mad Max was a good guy.” He left it at that and filed away what the nickname might mean in context to Grace. “What else did he say?”
“Our doctor is female and her name is Dr. Sayer. He didn’t know I had amnesia until he noticed I was scared. That signaled something was wrong. I guess I shouldn’t have been afraid of him. He also said he was sorry for betraying me.”
Hollis’s stomach knotted. Could they have been romantically involved? Had he betrayed her with infidelity? “Tell me everything.”
As they combed the room, finding nothing, she laid out the details. This guy carried light and had zero identification. How did he fly? Or drive? “We need to find his car.” Peter’s keys had been on the nightstand.
Outside, they spotted Cord’s sheriff’s unit. He’d bypassed finding them for the crime scene. Typical. “We need to hurry.”
Grace nodded and they rushed to the white sedan Peter had been driving. Nothing of value or telling inside. Just maps of Mississippi and stacks of brochures in the glove box for surrounding towns. Doubtful he was a sightseer. No, when he’d seen Grace was alive, he’d come straight for her.
When little Lilly’s disappearance in the state park had gone national, Hollis feared whoever hurt Grace would see her and come to finish what they started. It’s why he’d flown home early from his sister Greer’s house in Alabama. Now that Greer and Locke were together and engaged... “Remember me telling you about my sister’s fiancé?”
“The one who chases tornadoes for a