Deceit

He paced the kitchen, fingers dug into the sides of his scalp. His special cell phone, clipped to his belt, sat maddeningly silent. The last call he’d received on it had sent him on a rampage through the house, alternately cursing and begging God for a break. The sound of his own voice cussing dropped lead into his veins. He never did that. It was beneath a man of his morality.

“I lost them,” the caller had said. “And I got shot.”

“You what?”

“I got shot in the leg, man. I got to go to the hospital.”

“Don’t you dare leave a trail by going to the hospital. You do that, I’ll find you. I’ll put you away myself.”

“I got a bullet in my leg!”

“Better than one in your heart.”

The exchange still buzzed in his head. He’d wanted to reach through the invisible connection and strangle the caller. And if that wasn’t bad enough, his house phone had rung less than an hour later, a taunting voice on the line. A voice that wrenched such hatred through his gut he nearly threw up.

Right now he wanted to hit somebody. He wanted to bellow and scream.

Another curse spit from his lips.

He strode to the sink, filled a glass of water, and guzzled it down. Pull yourself together, man. This would all still work. He’d figure it out—didn’t he always? Didn’t he always come out on top?

The house phone rang.

He swung around and glared at it.

A second ring.

He took a deep breath and walked to the end of the counter. Picked up the receiver to check the ID.

Melissa Harkoff.

He raised his hand to throw the phone across the room, then caught himself. Maybe he could pull out some inkling of usable information.

With a growl in his throat he hit talk. “What makes you think I’m not recording these calls?”

“I’m sure you are, Baxter. Every word.” Melissa sounded out of breath.

“Blackmail’s a crime, in case you didn’t know it. I could take the tapes to the police.”

“Sure you will. Including all the parts in which I talk about you killing Linda.”

“I—”

“Would you like to record where you buried the body? Let me start with instructions on how to get there.”

“Shut up, Melissa.”

“You listen to me.” Melissa’s voice turned acid raw. “Because you’ve got very little time left—”

“I’m not paying you one dime!”

“You don’t have a choice anymore. Your sloppy mess of a killer missed, remember? I got him instead, remember that?”

Back to the taunts of her last call, some three and a half hours ago. When she claimed she’d been on the run with Joanne Weeks and had holed up in a hotel bathroom just long enough to “give her favorite hypocrite an update.”

There are plenty more hired killers I can find to hunt you down, girl.

“Where are you now? Still with Joanne?”

“Oh, Baxter. Are you sitting down? You won’t believe where I’ve just been.”

He wouldn’t dignify her ridicule with a response.

“Joanne took me to the district attorney’s house.”

Yeah, right.

“In Joanne’s car?” Baxter knew that couldn’t be true. For the last two hours his hired man had been watching the SUV, traced through the GPS to a hotel in Mountain View.

“Oh, right, like we’d leave in that wired car. You think we’re stupid? Joanne had a friend come get her. We escaped out a back door.”

Slow heat trickled down Baxter’s spine. They’d gotten away again? What kind of incompetent fool had he hooked up with?

“…took me to the district attorney’s house.” That’s just the kind of stunt Joanne Weeks would pull.

On the other hand, any word that came out of Melissa Har-koff’s mouth was most likely a lie.

“Just how would a visit to the DA fit in with your plans to blackmail me?” Baxter spat. “You tell them your story about how I killed Linda—and your money goes up in smoke.” Not that he ever intended to pay it in the first place.

“She tricked me. Told me she was taking me to her brother’s house to hide out.”

Joanne didn’t have a brother.

“Once we got there the DA—his name is Dan Marlahn. You know him? He lives in Hollister, on Maxley Lane.”

The heat in Baxter’s spine flickered into a burn and spread down his limbs.

“Anyway, Dan the DA told me I’m a ‘material witness.’ And I can’t refuse to say what I know or he’ll put me in jail.”

Baxter’s knees weakened. He dropped into a kitchen chair. Material witness? That sounded too knowledgeable of the law. Not something that would come solely from Melissa’s devious mind.

“I kept refusing to talk. You know I don’t want to tell them how you killed your wife. But Dan the DA wouldn’t budge. Said it was jail time for me—right on the spot. I told them ‘Okay, I’ll do it’ because—what choice did I have? Then I went to the bathroom and escaped out the window.”

Baxter breathed into the phone, his heart grinding into an erratic beat.

“So, dear Baxter, your deadline has just moved up. Tuesday won’t do. I’m not sure I can stay on the run that long. Now I have both you and the law after me. Any cop who finds me will haul me in, make me talk. Do you understand, Baxter? I have no choice.”

He stared across the kitchen floor to the place where Linda had fallen six long years ago. The exact spot where he’d been forced to make the horrific decision that had led to this moment. “There’s always a choice, Melissa.” The words dripped with meaning.

“Not this time. I’m not going to jail.”

“So run. You’re good at that.”

“I’ll have the law on me wherever I go. You want that hanging over your head, Baxter? The day I’m found is the day you go down.”

He fixated upon the infamous spot, hatred churning in his gut.

“Go ahead, Melissa, tell them your story. I’ll tell them you must have killed Linda and buried her all by yourself, while I slept. I didn’t know a thing about it. It’ll be my word against yours. Who do you suppose the jury’s going to believe?”

“Interesting story. Not quite sure it fits with your original one. You know—Linda went to the store for aspirin and never returned?”

Baxter seethed but could think of no reply.

Melissa laughed. The sound drove Baxter’s heels into the floor. “There are things you still don’t know, Baxter. Besides, you want to take the chance on who they believe? You want to go through an arrest, a trial? Your name dragged through the mud? And let’s not forget the strange death of wife number two. What if they reopen that case?”

Rage coursed through Baxter. He hunched forward and gripped the phone, his throat tightening at the too- recent memories. It wasn’t his fault; he hadn’t meant for any of that to happen. If Cherisse hadn’t mouthed off in their bedroom at the end of a long day as he was inserting a wooden stretcher into his shoe. If she hadn’t run out the door when he ordered her to stay, and if he hadn’t followed, that stretcher still in his hand, and if she hadn’t