and pulled the trigger, sending a blast of buckshot in their direction.
Derek shoved Maleah out of the line of fire, tossed her onto the ground and came down over her. Eye to eye with her, his heavy weight a protective shield, Derek said, “Maybe we should have called first.”
Chapter 14
Maleah didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or just slap Derek in the mouth. During the process of rolling off her, he managed to unsnap her holster and remove her Glock pistol before she could. He aimed and fired. The bullet hit the tin sign hanging over the front door of the Paulk house. The pinging sound rang out over the dog’s incessant barking.
“Unless you want the next one aimed directly at you, then don’t fire that damn shotgun again,” Derek hollered at the shooter.
“When did you damn bill collectors start carrying guns?” the man called out to Derek, then shouted at his barking mixed-breed dog. “Shut up, damn it, Pork Chop.”
“We aren’t bill collectors,” Maleah said, as she grabbed for her gun still in Derek’s clutch.
“We’re from the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency.” Derek handed Maleah the Glock and whispered, “Don’t holster that thing yet. You never know what Jethro there might do.”
Jethro? If they hadn’t been in such a deadly serious situation, she would laugh. Derek undoubtedly meant Jethro Bodine, the big dumb character from the
“Are you folks lost?” the shooter asked.
“We’re looking for Jeri Paulk,” Maleah said as she rose to her feet, pistol in hand.
“That’s my wife.” The man lowered his shotgun, the muzzle pointed toward the porch floor. “I’m Lonny Paulk. What y’all want with Jeri?”
Derek stood, brushed the dirt and grass from his slacks and took a stand at Maleah’s side. “We’re looking for her sister, Cindy Dobbins. We think she might be in danger.”
Lonny stepped out farther onto the porch and came over to the edge of the steps, shotgun still pointing down, and motioned to them. “Y’all come on up closer.” He twisted his head and yelled over his shoulder, “Jeri, get your fat ass out here. There’s some folks here who want to talk to you about that fuck-up sister of yours. Seems she’s gotten herself into more trouble.”
As they approached Lonny, Maleah noted several things all at once. He was as hairy as a grizzly, his greasy brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and he emitted an unpleasant body odor. The man definitely needed, at the very least, a haircut and a bath.
Maleah paused when she reached the foot of the steps. Derek halted directly behind her.
“Who the hell’s looking for Cindy?” A short, obese woman who was almost as broad as she was wide—about five feet—came out onto the porch. The first thing Maleah noticed was the woman’s hair. It looked like bright yellow straw. She wore an oversized moo-moo in some hideous floral design of purple, hot pink, and turquoise that on a taller person would have hit them mid-calf. But on Jeri, the hem reached her ankles and floated over her small, broad feet and bright orange toenails.
“Are you Jeri Paulk?” Derek asked. “And is Cindy Dobbins, also known as Cindy Di Blasi, your sister?”
“Yeah, I’m Jeri and I got a sister named Cindy. What’s this all about?” Jeri waddled across the porch to her husband’s side.
“We’re from the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency,” Maleah told them. “We’re investigating a series of murders and we have reason to believe your sister Cindy is in danger. We’re trying to locate her to warn her. We want to offer her our agency’s protection.”
“Who is it that you two are working for?” Jeri sized up Derek and apparently liked what she saw because she licked her lips and smiled at him.
Once again, if not for the gravity of the situation, Maleah would have laughed. “We’re agents for the Powell Private—”
“I heard that part,” Jeri said. “But who hired you?”
“Several murder victims were connected to our agency,” Derek explained. “Our employer assigned us to investigate.”
“How’s my sister involved?”
“The killer that we’re tracking is a copycat killer.” Maleah watched for a reaction and when Jeri looked as if she understood, Maleah continued. “He’s copying the style of a murderer known as the Carver. Your sister Cindy has been visiting the Carver, who is incarcerated in the Georgia State Prison. We want to question her.”
“You said she might be in danger,” Lonny said. “How?”
Derek leaned over and whispered to Maleah, “Cindy’s here.”
Maleah didn’t know how Derek knew or why he was so sure, but she had learned not to question his instincts, which for the most part had proven to be infallible.
“Jerome Browning, aka the Carver, has had three visitors in the past year, one was a writer interviewing him for a book about his life, the other was his lawyer and the third person was Cindy.” Maleah paused, giving Jeri and Lonny time to digest the info. “Browning’s lawyer was murdered earlier today. We have reason to believe that Cindy could be next.”
Silence.
Lonny turned to his wife. “I told you not to let her stay here. That woman is nothing but bad news. Every goddamn time she’s around, trouble follows her.”
Jeri planted her fat little hands on her ample hips. “She’s my sister. What did you want me to do, tell her she can’t come to me when she needs family? Lord knows I’ve put up with enough shit from that bunch of heathens you come from.”
“Are you saying that Cindy is here?” Maleah asked.
A petite figure appeared in the doorway and stood behind the screen door.
“Cindy?” Maleah asked. “Are you Cindy Dobbins?”
The woman pushed open the door, came outside and moved past her sister and brother-in-law. “I’m Cindy Dobbins.” She turned to Jeri. “You and Lonny go on back inside. I want to talk to these people alone.”
“Are you sure?” Jeri asked Cindy.
Cindy nodded.
Jeri and Lonny went inside, but left the front door open.
“Y’all come on up here and take a seat.” Cindy motioned for them to join her on the porch.
Maleah holstered her Glock and then walked up the steps, Derek directly behind her. Cindy sat in the dilapidated recliner. Maleah’s first instinct was to wipe off the metal chair before sitting, but she didn’t. When she sat, Derek came over and stood behind her. The yellow bug light shining down from the bare bulb in the ceiling cast a blaring amber glow across the porch
“Is Wyman Scudder really dead?” Cindy asked.
Maleah studied the slender, petite woman, who certainly looked older than thirty-five. But she wasn’t a badlooking woman, just old before her time. Hard living could do that to a person. Her short, curly hair had been dyed a dark burgundy red which made her pale face seem colorless. Without makeup and wearing jeans and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, she didn’t look like a prostitute, just a rode-hard-and-put-away-wet middle-aged country gal.
“Yes, Wyman Scudder is dead,” Maleah said. “We’re pretty sure he was murdered.”
“How did you meet Mr. Scudder?” Derek asked.
“Look, before I answer any of your questions, I need to know that I’m not going to get in any trouble with the law.” Cindy glanced from Maleah to Derek. “I got myself involved in something I wish I hadn’t. But I didn’t have no idea . . . I just needed the money. I’ve been out of the business for a while, you know. I’ve tried waitressing and working in the chicken plant and all sorts of odd jobs. I got a kid, see, and it ain’t right that she’s in foster care. The only way I can get her back is . . .” Cindy swallowed her tears.
“You have a daughter?” Maleah leaned forward toward Cindy. “What’s her name?”
