Cruel Intent

This was far more than Bryan had said during all the hours Dave had spent with him in the interrogation room. “You knew about Singleatheart, then?” Dave asked.

“Not until Monday night, when I went through Morgan’s computer files.”

“How could you do that?” Dave asked. “Her computer was at the house. It was under lock and key as part of the crime scene.”

“There’s a backup system,” Bryan said. “It was all there-her own little black book. Morgan kept a detailed account of all her conquests: where they went, what they did, when she dumped the poor guy, and how. And if you want to find someone who was pissed about being dumped, maybe you should talk to my old pal Billy Barnes. That two-faced SOB, my good buddy, a guy whose ass I saved by giving him a job, was more than happy to screw around with my wife behind my back. And when she dropped him for that new guy, somebody named Jimmy, Billy went all to pieces. Sent her whiny, pleading messages, begging her to take him back. But by now you’ve been through her files, and you already know all this stuff. You’ve seen it.”

“No, I haven’t,” Dave said. “The files on Morgan’s computer had all been destroyed. So were yours.”

The undiluted surprise on Bryan Forester’s face would have been tough to fake. “Destroyed?” he demanded. “What do you mean, destroyed? How’s that possible?”

“Someone overwrote the files. There’s nothing left.”

“Nothing?” Bryan repeated, shaking his head. “That can’t be. No way. My whole business is on those two computers-all my contracts and sales records; my tax and insurance information.” He paused. “You don’t think I did this-that I deliberately set out to destroy the information. Besides, I made copies on two thumb drives. I gave them to Ali, but maybe they’re wrecked, too. Crap. If they are, then I’m done for. Out of business. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Somebody’s out to destroy me.”

From Monday afternoon on, from the moment Dave had seen Morgan Forester’s lifeless body in the porch swing, he had been convinced that her husband had done the deed. And when he’d first learned of the damaged computers, he’d been even more certain that Bryan was responsible for those as well. B. Simpson had tried to tell him otherwise, but Dave hadn’t really believed it. Now maybe he did, and for the first time it occurred to him that there might be two victims here-both Morgan Forester and her husband.

Ali felt self-conscious peeling out of her sodden clothing and putting on the jogging suit under the watchful eye of her captor. As she did it, she seesawed back and forth, second-guessing her strategy. She kept hoping that somehow she’d find another way out of this awful mess-a way that wouldn’t require involving her mother in a desperate life-or-death gambit.

Ali knew she should leave Edie out of it, even though her mother and her newly activated Taser held the key to evening the odds. What if it all went bad-if one or both of them died? Ali knew in advance that no matter what happened, her mother would forgive her, and so would her father. There was no question about that. The problem was, if something awful happened to Edie and her daughter somehow survived, would Ali ever be able to forgive herself?

Even so, Ali knew several important things about Edie Larson that the bad guy didn’t. For one thing, Ali understood that her mother would fight to the death to help protect her child, in the same way Ali would fight for Chris if the situation called for it. Ali knew, too, that her mother was stubborn. Having gone to war with her husband over whether she should have a Taser, Edie would be damned rather than leave the restaurant without it. Just to show her husband, she would have taken it home with her. It would be someplace close at hand-in her pocket or her purse.

Ali’s captor wouldn’t consider the possibility that Edie Larson would be armed for bear. This arrogant jerk would automatically assume that Edie-a harmless-looking gray-haired, hearing-aid-wearing old lady-would pose no threat to him at all. Ali understood instinctively that he would totally “misunderestimate” her mother.

Edie Larson’s stubborn streak was much like Ali’s own, and Edie would fight like crazy once she knew what was going on-if she knew what was going on. That was the problem. How could Ali manage that feat of mother/daughter communication? How would she let Edie know what was at stake without alerting the gunman?

At last Ali was dressed. When she stood up, she was woozy. Clutching at the dresser for support, she looked around for her shoes, which were nowhere to be seen. The cut next to her eye was still bleeding. She looked down at her bare feet just as a drop of blood trickled off her chin and dripped onto the top of her foot. Her cheek ached, her mouth was close to being swollen shut, but seeing the blood-her own blood-shocked her.

I could die today, she thought. It could all be over.

Meantime, her captor pointed the gun at Leland Brooks, who lay motionless on the floor. “Drag him into the other room,” he ordered Ali. “We’ll load him into the back of his truck and take him with us when we leave.”

To go where? Ali wondered. Where are you taking us?

She didn’t ask that question aloud, though. She knew better. Wherever he pla

When she bent down to lift Leland, she was relieved to find him soaking wet but warm to the touch. He was breathing and probably heavily sedated, but at least he wasn’t dead. He was deadweight, however. Grunting with effort, she managed to drag him out of the bedroom, through the living room, and over to the front door. He moaned softly as she wrestled him out the door and onto the front steps.

She hoped briefly that one of her neighbors might see what was going on and summon help. Ali’s Andante Drive house sat at the top of the hill with an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside, but that also meant the house next door shielded her place from all the others farther down the street. As for her next-door neighbor? She was a single mother who was most likely at work, and her kids were at school. Looking at that deserted street, Ali had never felt more isolated or more alone.

At the edge of the porch, she stopped, panting with effort. “He’s too heavy,” she gasped. “I can’t do this alone.”

With a sigh of disgust, the man shoved the.357 into the top of his pants. Bending over, he effortlessly lifted Leland off the porch and flung him over his shoulder. Ali thought briefly about making a grab for the gun while both of the man’s hands were occupied. She thought about it, but she didn’t even try. She was too spent to make it work.

“Open it,” he ordered.

Months earlier, Leland Brooks had installed an aluminum camper shell on the back of his truck. The tailgate on the camper shell flipped up while the tailgate on the truck flipped down. Ali wrenched both of them open and then stood back while her captor tossed Leland’s helpless body onto the floor of the pickup as casually as if he were a bag of potatoes.

“So much for him,” the man said, closing the tailgates. “We can finish this later. Time to go. You drive.”

But Ali didn’t move right away. The water was finally clearing from her lungs, and the crippling fog was lifting from her brain as well. She stared up at him. He was still wearing his latex gloves. Why? Because he didn’t want to leave any prints behind. He claimed this was all about his stolen files-that he wanted his files back. But there had to be more to it, had to be more at stake. In a moment of insight, Ali understood what it was-the only thing that made sense.

“You murdered Morgan Forester, didn’t you?”

He gave a mirthless chuckle and shrugged. “Brainy as you are, you’re just now figuring that out? Morgan thought she was smarter than I am, but she wasn’t. Neither are you, and neither is your mother.”