The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller

I jumped.

The salesman glared down at me. “You mind telling me what you’re doing, son?”

Fear and panic silenced me.

“I said, son?”

“I was…I…”

“You want to tell me why you’re removing price tags from our merchandise?”

“I…”

My mother stepped around the corner. With hands clamped to her hips, head tilted, and an angry scowl on her face, she said, “Patrick! What have you done now?”

“This your boy, ma’am?”

She walked toward us shaking her head, and with irritation in her voice said, “Oh for heaven’s sake. What has he gotten himself into this time?”

“I caught him removing price labels from our merchandise,” the salesman said, pointing to the shreds still stuck to my pant leg. A group of people began gathering around, watching us.

Watching me.

“You apologize to this nice man!” she shouted. “Do it right this instant!”

And so I did, with tears rolling down cheeks, barely able to get the words out.

My mother turned to the salesman. “I’m so sorry. I really am. He’s a problem child, and I’m just at my wit’s end. His father passed away, and me being a single mother and all, you know… I just don’t know what to do with him. I’m so embarrassed.”

Then she dragged me by my arm, through the crowd and out of the store, shouting the whole way.

I don’t remember much about the ride home, except for the humiliation I felt.

And this:

“Congratulations,” she said, once we were on the road. “You really fucked that one up.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Yet another storm.

This one came barreling in off the coast, slate gray skies and rain drifting through the air in sheets.

A perfect match for my mood…and the turbulent feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Figuring out Nathan Kingsley’s murder was like peeling away the layers of an onion: the deeper I got, the more it stunk. The less sense it seemed to make, too. No wonder I’d had such a hard time figuring out Ronald Lucas’s connection to all this. He didn’t really have one.

But if he didn’t do it, who did?

The mysterious Sam I Am entered my mind. His role seemed to be pushing its way toward center stage. I wondered if he could have killed both Jean and Nathan Kingsley. But why would he want either of them dead? And why then spare Dennis?

And what about my mother and Warren? I still had no idea what they were doing in the middle of all this.

Nissie Lambert helped me fill in a lot of empty spaces where Lucas was concerned. Still, what she told me was just one piece to an already confusing puzzle. If her brother was in fact framed, I had no idea who was behind it, or why.

Jackson Wright had represented Lucas during his trial and during the subsequent appeals process. Back at the motel, I powered up the computer and did a search. He was still practicing law in Corvine with an office on Prospect Street. Good. Hopefully, he could help me take Nissie’s information to the next level.

Questions without answers—they were building too quickly. So too, was my exhaustion, because for the second night in a row, I passed out cold without even turning off the lights.

* * *

I shot straight up in bed, thinking I’d heard something like a door closing. Not slammed, more like being pulled gently closed. A dream?

I turned the alarm clock toward me: 8:07 a.m. I was still wearing my clothes from the night before. The word overworked came to mind, and after that, underpaid.

I pulled my mobile phone from the nightstand and checked messages. Nothing. Then I dialed CJ’s number at work.

“Norris,” she said, sounding groggy and tired. She wasn’t the only one.

“It’s Patrick.”

“Hey, you. How’re things going?”

“They’re going. Listen, I need to ask you a question.”

“Lay it on me.”

“Ever hear the name Michael Samuels?”

She paused for a moment, and then, “No. Should I?”

“Not necessarily. Just wondering.”

She spoke her words slowly, and I could hear her smiling. “Whatcha workin’, Pat? Wanna tell me?”

“Don’t get too excited. So far all I’m doing is running in circles and getting doors slammed in my face.”

She didn’t respond.

I said, “You still there?”

“Yeah. Uh-huh.”

“Why the silence?”

“Oh, nothing. Just trying to figure out why you’re giving me a snow job instead of the truth.”

“I’m not giving you a snow job.”

“It’s a small town, remember that, Pat. People are talking. Also remember that I’m not stupid.”

“Never said you were.”

“Hmm. Yeah. Okay. Well good luck on that. Gotta go.” And she hung up.

I stared at my phone for a moment. Smart girl, that CJ, no doubt. Attractive too, and clearly single; I wondered why, then laughed at myself for asking such a stupid question. I hardly had room to talk.

I started a pot of coffee, went to the door to grab the morning paper.

It was unlocked. I was surprised at first, but I’d passed out so quickly the night before, I figured I’d simply forgotten to lock it.

I poured the coffee, brought it to my bed. Cheap motel, cheap coffee, but at least they gave out free newspapers. Not much going on in Corvine today: the front-page story was, City Council Meets to Discuss New Traffic Light on Fifth and Cedar, complete with a photo of the council, all two of them. They didn’t look particularly excited about the issue.

Turned the page for more of the same. Swap meet coming up this Sunday at the Baptist church. Missing German Shepherd; answers to “Mike.” Wondered who in the world would name their dog that.

I yawned.

From the looks of things, Nathan Kingsley’s kidnapping was the most exciting news this town had ever seen —probably enough for them, I guessed. They’d had their fill.

Since both the newspaper and coffee had failed to stimulate, I decided to get in the shower and get moving. I had an appointment with Jackson Wright in about an hour, figured I’d walk around town for a bit, maybe grab something to eat.

I lathered up in the shower and tried to organize my thoughts. No luck there; far too many of them floating around and far too confusing. I rinsed off, got out, grabbed a towel.

And froze.

Written on the steamy mirror, a message:

u spy