garbage in the cool of the early morning.
Punching the number of Hannah’s cell phone into his cell phone as he sped up the on-ramp to I-59, he muttered a fervent prayer that she’d answer. But her voicemail connected after two rings. “Hannah, it’s Riley. If you get this, find your parents or one of your brothers and stick with them until I get there. I’m in Birmingham but I’m heading your way. Do not go anywhere alone, do you hear me? We’ve found the killer. His name is Kyle Layton.” He rattled off the description Joe had given him. “He’s on his way to Alabama.”
The voicemail beeped, cutting him off. He cursed and considered calling back but decided he’d been able to record enough to warn her to stay put. He tried directory assistance next and got the phone number for the Cooper Cove Marina booking office, but voicemail kicked in at that number as well. He left a similar message and rang off, a slow, sick terror rising like bile in his throat.
Where the hell was she? Was he already too late?
He was somewhere just past Gadsden, about five miles from the Gossamer Ridge exit and driving as fast as he dared when his cell phone rang. He grabbed it, not even checking the display. “Riley Patterson.”
“This is Aaron Cooper. Hannah’s brother.” The voice on the other end of the line was low and tense. “Joe Garrison gave me your number.”
“Tell me Hannah’s with you right now,” Riley demanded.
“She’s not. She’s out on the lake with a client.”
The knots in Riley’s stomach twisted into new knots. “A client?”
“I talked to my parents. She and a fishing client left around six-thirty this morning. Guy named Ken Lassiter.”
“Six-one, sandy-blond hair, gray eyes?”
On the other end of the line, Aaron let loose a stream of profanities. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Do you have any idea where she’d take him?”
“One or two. I’m about ten minutes away from the lake. I’ll call my brothers. They’re probably already on the lake with clients. How far away are you?”
“I’m taking the Gossamer Ridge exit now,” he said, jerking the rental car hard right and down the off- ramp.
“You’re only a couple of miles from the turn-off to the marina. Take a left and watch for the sign on your left. You may beat me there, but wait for me!” Aaron rang off.
Though bleakly certain it was a futile gesture, Riley tried Hannah’s cell number again. Voicemail again. He snapped the phone shut with a growl and took a left at the bottom of the ramp, shooting through a yellow light and hoping like hell there weren’t any speed traps between him and the marina.
Hannah was on the lake with a killer, and he might already be too late.
HANNAH SLOWLY STEERED the Triton with the stick, watching her client twitch the jig around the edge of the sunken pier. This was one of her favorite fishing holes, but so far Ken Lassiter wasn’t having much luck. He lacked the smooth, instinctive rhythm of an experienced crappie fisherman, but so far he’d refused her suggestion that he switch to live bait.
“Where are you from, Mr. Lassiter?” she asked, bringing the boat to a stop and unreeling the anchor until she felt it thump lightly on the muddy lake bottom.
“Idaho.” He flashed her a rueful smile. “Not a lot of crappie fishing up there, I’m afraid.”
“I was next door in Wyoming a couple of weeks ago,” she commented, watching him cast the jig toward shore. “Good trout fishing there.”
“Yes.” He glanced at her. “Vacation or work?”
“Vacation,” she answered, wishing she hadn’t brought up Wyoming. It reminded her of Riley, and she was supposed to be putting Riley out of her head.
“Nice country, Wyoming. Where’d you go-Yellowstone? Did you see Old Faithful?”
“Didn’t quite make it there.”
“Do you go out by yourself like this all the time?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Usually. It’s a small boat. Not a lot of room for extra passengers.”
“You must be brave. It’s a dangerous world out there.”
The sound of his voice echoed in her head, drawing out a memory. A man’s voice, neutral and low. Familiar.
Blood rushed loudly in her ears, making her feel lightheaded. She gripped the seat of her chair and stared at Ken Lassiter’s back, the horrible truth sliding relentlessly through the fog of first panic.
Ken Lassiter. Like the Lassiter Oil station where a mysterious man warned her not to travel alone, then punished her for not taking his advice.
She fought to remember what the man had looked like, desperate to convince herself that everything unfolding before her now was just some crazy coincidence. But her fishing client was the right height, the right build, and as far as she could remember, the right coloring. Today, just as he had that day at the gas station, he wore a baseball cap low over his forehead.
Just then, he lifted the spinning rod, giving her a close-up view of his left hand. A pale band of skin circled his pinky finger between the second and third knuckles, contrasting sharply with the rest of the tanned skin of his hand.
It was him. That’s where the onyx ring went, the one he’d been wearing the day he’d attacked her.
In the back of her mind, a terrified voice was shrieking with panic, trying to drown out her attempts at logical thought. She beat it back with ruthless determination, taking advantage of the man’s distraction to gather her wits.
She mentally raced through her options, not liking any of them. If this man was the killer, anything she did out of the ordinary, like ending their fishing trip abruptly, might spur him into action sooner. Trying to subdue him alone wasn’t smart, either. He outweighed her by a lot, and there would be little room to maneuver on the boat to seek any sort of advantage.
And she didn’t know how long she had before he decided to make his move. She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t made it already.
“Why don’t we try another spot?” she suggested. “Maybe we’ll have more luck there.” She tried to keep the fear from her voice but wasn’t sure she was succeeding.
“Let’s stick here a little longer,” he said calmly.
Hannah darted her gaze around the boat until she spotted her open tackle box. Beneath the upper trays, she had a nice big fillet knife stored, but getting to it would cause too much of a clamor and might draw his attention. However, if she could get to her jacket, which she’d shed when the temperature had risen with full sun-up, she could sneak out the sturdy pocketknife she always carried when she fished.
She stepped lightly to the middle of the boat and picked up the jacket, slipping it on.
Her movement caught Ken’s attention. “Cold?”
“Just a little. The breeze has kicked up a bit.” She snugged the jacket around her, sticking her hands in her pockets. She palmed the pocketknife, trying not to notice how small it felt.
If she could get him out of this secluded cove, she could track down Jake or Gabe at one of their favorite bass spots, she realized as the small comfort of the knife helped clear her mind a little. Both of her brothers were on the lake with fishing clients this morning. If she could reach one of them, she’d be safe. Then she could set the local cops on Ken Lassiter.
“Are you sure you don’t want to head for another spot?” she asked again.
“Very.” Lassiter turned around to look at her. “I have to say, Hannah Cooper, you’re a hard woman to kill.”
A CHICKASAW COUNTY SHERIFF’S cruiser sat in the parking lot of the Cooper Cove Bait Shop when Riley pulled in, his rental car kicking up gravel as he skidded to a stop. He rushed past the empty cruiser and entered the bait shop.
At the front, an older couple and a uniformed deputy turned to look at him.
“I’m Riley Patterson,” he announced. “You’re Aaron?”
The dark-haired deputy nodded. “These are my parents, Beth and Mike. We’ve tried calling my brothers on the lake, but they usually forward their calls to voicemail when they’re fishing with clients. I was about to grab a boat and head out myself.”
