Under The Agent's Protection

Did it really matter in light of the fact that Axl was gone? Was what Wyatt Thornton had said been true? Did Everly want a monumental explanation for a simple set of facts? No. She owed her brother the truth and she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t find out what happened.

“Oh, if you could talk to the bartender and see what she remembers I would so appreciate it,” said Everly with a small smile. “You’d be the first person actually trying to help me around here.”

Turning, she wheeled her luggage down the main corridor. There were a dozen rooms on the first floor, and she guessed there were twice as many on the second. A deep green runner stretched the entire length of the hallway, with identical doors on each side. Brass numbers were affixed to each door, along with a keycard entry.

Since she had no idea which room had belonged to her brother, Everly decided a room-by-room search was in order. She also decided to start on the second floor, when something caught her eye. A paper tag had been placed over one of the locks. Do Not Disturb had been preprinted on the label. But it was the printed memo from the Pleasant Pines sheriff’s office on the door that caught her attention:

No entry by order of the Sheriff’s Department.

Bingo.

Everly didn’t want to wait another minute to get into her brother’s room. Looking over her shoulder, she found that the corridor was empty. After fishing the passkey from her pocket, she opened the door. Even before she stepped into the room, she knew she’d found the right place. It smelled like Axl. It was a combination of grass and dirt. No matter the occasion, Axl always smelled like the outdoors. Yet, to smell it now was both cruel and beautiful. She bit the inside of her lip hard enough to staunch a new flood of tears.

To Everly, it looked like the sheriff’s deputies had already gone through the place. All the clothes had been taken from the suitcase and were piled haphazardly on one of the beds—something Axl wouldn’t do. Likewise, the closet doors were open, his jackets thrown next to the pile.

A fine gray powder covered the dresser. The nightstand. Even the TV remote. It must be fingerprint powder.

For a moment, she wondered about all the crime shows she’d ever watched on TV. Was she contaminating the room, with her fingerprints or hair, just by being here? Then again what she needed were facts about what happened if she wanted to get the sheriff to look into Axl’s death.

Setting aside her suitcase, she left the door slightly ajar. The curtains had been drawn and only a sliver of light shone through the place where the seams did not meet. In the dim light, she scanned the nondescript hotel room. A bureau with a TV stood against one wall. A mirror hung just to the left. A desk was next to the bureau. A chair and small table took up a corner.

There were also two beds. Both were made, but one had an opened suitcase and a shaving kit piled on it, but no camera. She riffled through the suitcase and patted down the pile of his clothes. In the pocket of a fleece jacket, she found Axl’s cell phone.

Alarm bells began ringing in her mind. Like the camera, Axl was never without his phone. Everly picked it up and pressed the home button. At one time her thumbprint had been programmed into the phone. But was it still?

Holding her breath, she waited.

The home screen appeared. She scrolled through the texts—all from his work. There were no voice mails. She checked his calendar...and found one entry.

9:00 p.m. March 21. Meet at bar.

So, he had gone to the bar to meet someone. But who? More than that, was the sheriff right? Had her brother been drunk and foolish?

Everly heard the whisper of a sound and turned. As her gaze passed over the mirror, she caught a fleeting glimpse of a shadowy form. Blood froze in her veins and she began to scream. The sound died in her throat as a sharp pain filled her skull. Everly stumbled, her legs no longer able to hold her upright.

And then she pitched forward, falling into a pool of blackness.

The engine revved as it climbed the hill. The wrought iron gate that led to Wyatt’s property stood open and inviting. In the distance, he saw the wide porch of his refurbished farmhouse. The newly installed solar panels winked in the early afternoon light. Pressing down on the accelerator, he rocketed past the driveway, cursing himself for what he was about to do.

Three years ago, Wyatt walked away from the FBI, after realizing he could no longer trust his instincts. So why was he now returning to the place where Axl Baker’s body had been found? Did he not have any confidence in the sheriff? Had Baker’s sister goaded him into looking for something that may not exist?

Or was it what he feared—that the similarities to his final case proved that he was still stuck in the past after all this time?

Wyatt didn’t like any of the possibilities.

Nothing that happened was really any of Wyatt’s business. Yet, he couldn’t let it go.

It was almost twelve fifteen when the turnoff for the old schoolhouse came into view. Pulling onto the shoulder, Wyatt turned off the ignition. With a final curse, he leaped from the truck. Wind whipped off the mountains and howled as it danced along the plain. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his vest, he walked slowly to the rutted track.

He kneeled next to a sapling. The little tree was hardly higher than ten inches, and yet it had been snapped in half. Wyatt recalled the sheriff clambering out of his large truck, the undercarriage more than a foot off the ground. There was no way that the big truck had broken the little tree.

If not Haak’s vehicle, then what had?

On foot, Wyatt followed the path. It was as if every plant that grew above four inches had been mowed down. Definitely done by the grille of something low—most likely a sedan. Was it a clue to a mystery, or simply an oddity with a reasonable explanation?

Clouds roiled at the peaks of the Rockies, promising to bring cold, wind and more snow. In less than ten minutes, he’d covered the last half of a mile and the little schoolhouse came into view.

The first thing he noticed was that the stench of death was gone—once the body had been taken away, no doubt the structure had been able to air out. Yellow-and-black police tape had been stretched across the door, barring entry. But it was more of a warning than a true obstacle and Wyatt ducked underneath to enter the single room. Without the body, the space seemed bigger and brighter. Less ominous.

Wyatt spent a minute trying to imagine the room in a bygone era, with a score of children sitting obediently behind rows of wooden desks. The image never held, and his mind returned to what he had seen yesterday. The body. Stone and wood. Sunlight and shadow.

A gust of wind shook the walls and sent a leaf skittering across the floor. Bit by bit, the natural world was laying claim to the structure. He kneeled and picked up the leaf, twisting it between his fingers. Yesterday the floor had been clean, and now not.

There had to be something that he’d missed.

Thinking back to Everly Baker’s insistence about her brother’s habits, Wyatt stepped back outside, scanning the ground around the cabin for any sign of Axl’s missing camera. The glint of metal. Glass, reflecting the light.

There was nothing.

With his back to the door, Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest and looked across the horizon. The mountains. The plains. The sky. And him alone in the world, just like he wanted.

Still, the mystery of Axl Baker’s death was now, uncomfortably, a part of him, like dirt tattooed into the creases of his knuckles. The unanswered questions lingered, pinging away at him like popcorn in a hot pan. A body with no evident cause of death. No signs that the deceased had struggled, either. The floor, that yesterday was swept clean. Plants, broken on the trail. The missing camera. The sister, desperate for answers.

Each was a piece to a puzzle. But in reality—together, did they create a picture? Or were they even connected in the first place?

Was the broken vegetation a clue? Not really, especially when Wyatt considered that the medical examiner would’ve followed the same path when he came to collect the body. The dirt-free floor was harder to explain but wasn’t impossible.

But what about Everly Baker? He had the power to help her. What had he offered? Nothing but trite advice. Definitely not his finest hour.

He spoke her name out loud. “Everly Baker.” The wind stole the words before he could decide if he liked the way they tasted.

The feeling of their accidental touch lingered on his fingertips. Her skin had been soft, and a sweetly spicy scent surrounded her. It was somehow homey and sexy at the same time. Her eyes, a jade green, had spoken of sadness and strength.

He rubbed his fingers on his jeans.

But it had been there, something he hadn’t felt—or wanted to feel—for such a long time. It was a connection with another person.

He’d come to Wyoming three years before to escape. Escape the scrutiny of higher-ups. Escape all of the questions from the media. Escape the stress, and, most important, escape the doubts that constantly nagged him, even in his dreams.

No. He wouldn’t get involved in the unexplained death. He’d left the need to hunt down killers in his past life—that was, if Axl Baker hadn’t died of natural causes. A few stray snowflakes danced on the wind. He looked at the mountains and the peak was gone—completely obscured by the clouds. Soon enough, the storm would be in the valley and Wyatt didn’t want to be caught lingering by the old schoolhouse.

Turning back to the track, Wyatt began the walk to his waiting truck. From there, he’d take the road home and return to the life that kept him safe. Sheltered.

Alone.

Everly was swimming. The water was dark and cold. The surface hovered above her, just out of reach. A voice called to her from the shore.

“Ms. Baker? Ms. Baker? Can you hear me?”

Everly wanted to speak, but her mouth filled with murky water. Gasping, she broke the surface and found that she was lying on a carpeted floor. She could feel a rough mark imprinted on her cheek, yet nothing else seemed real.

“Ms. Baker?” A tall blond woman was kneeling next to Everly.

And then it all came back to her—Axl’s death, his missing camera, her stealing the keycard to get into his room. But why was she on the floor?

“Ms. Baker, can you hear me?” It was the woman who worked at the front desk and her name was Darcy; she now remembered that, too.

“What happened?” Everly’s mouth was dry, her lip was tender.

“I came down the hall and saw that the door was opened a bit. I thought maybe one of the deputies had come by. I almost closed it without looking, but I peeked in and saw you on the floor.”

Everly sat up—the back of her head throbbed. She glanced at the bedside clock. She’d only been out for a few minutes. “I was hit,” she said, recalling the single glimpse of the silhouette in the mirror.

“Hit?” echoed Darcy. Her voice was a whisper. “By who?”

“I didn’t see a face,” said Everly. “Just a shadow.”

“Are you sure? There wasn’t anyone in the hall. Nobody came through the lobby, either.”

“Well, I know what I saw, and I know what happened to me,” Everly insisted.

“You wait here,” said Darcy as she got to her feet. “I’m going to call Sheriff Haak, and the doctor, too. A hit to the head that’s strong enough to knock you out probably gave you a concussion.”

The sheriff? So far Darcy hadn’t pressed Everly for how she got into the room, even though it was obvious. What would the sheriff say? Certainly, Everly had broken at least one law when she stole the keycard and entered a room that wasn’t hers—the official order to stay out notwithstanding.

Then again, Everly would bet anything that the attack hadn’t been random. She’d been targeted. That didn’t put anyone else at risk, but it left her exposed. The bump on the back of her head was a warning—nothing more. If anyone wanted her dead, they could’ve easily killed her in the minutes that she was unconscious. The thought left her chilled, and she crossed her arms over her chest to staunch a tremble.

“Hold on a second,” she called to Darcy. Everly stood slowly, the throbbing at the back of her head increasing in tempo and intensity. “I’m not sure that I was hit. I mean, I hit the back of my head—but I might have fainted and come down on the edge of the nightstand.”

“You were so sure you’d been attacked just a minute ago.”

“My brother died unexpectedly, and I flew all night from Chicago to be here. I was standing in his room and it smells like he did, you know. It was overwhelming.” Everly sighed and touched the lump on the back of her head. She winced. “To be honest, there’s nothing that I’m actually sure of right now.”

“Even if you don’t know, you should still talk to the sheriff.”

“I really don’t want him involved.”

Darcy shook her head. “You have been through a lot and I don’t want to make trouble for you. Just, please, don’t make any more trouble for yourself. Sheriff Haak is a good man—he’ll figure out what happened.”

“I hope so,” said Everly.

“If you fell, you still need to see a doctor. I can call him for you.”

“I’ve met Doc Lambert already. I’ll get in touch once I get to my room,” said Everly, even though she had no intention of calling anyone.

“Are you sure?” asked Darcy.

As if to prove that she was fit, Everly grabbed the handle of her suitcase and rolled it from the room. “Positive,” she said, then added, “Thanks for everything.”

Darcy followed Everly and pulled the door closed. “Call the front desk if you need anything at all—that’s legal at least.”

Everly held out the purloined keycard. “Sorry about that,” she said.

Darcy took the card. “Just don’t do it again, and we’ll be even.”

After giving the desk clerk a wave, she walked to the elevator. Thank goodness Everly knew how to sell a story. In fact, her bit about fainting had been so convincing that Everly almost believed it herself. Now that she didn’t have to deal with the sheriff, she needed to find out who would want to keep her away from Axl’s death.

In her estimation, there was only one suspect. It was the same man who wanted her gone and had also found her brother’s body.

Everly wheeled the luggage to her room and entered. Despite the fact that her head still throbbed, she sat at the desk. Removing her laptop, she powered it up and entered two words into the search engine. Wyatt Thornton.

There wasn’t much on the internet about Wyatt Thornton. A real-estate transaction, along with a local address. She wrote down the address. And a notice that he’d adopted a dog from a county rescue.

There had to be more. In this day and age, nobody lived off the grid. And if they did, it was because they didn’t want to be found.

She tried again. W. Thornton.

The search was met with a question. Did you mean Special Agent W. Thornton? Thousands of hits followed. She scanned headlines from articles about a notorious serial killer in Las Vegas and the FBI profiler in charge of the case: W. Thornton. She moved the cursor to hover over the No icon. Then she stopped. Her eye was drawn to a photograph of several FBI agents, and one of them was unquestionably the same one she met earlier today, Wyatt Thornton.

His hair was longer now, with just a touch of gray that he hadn’t had when the photo had been taken years ago. The suit he wore had been replaced with jeans, but it was him.

Immediately she wondered why he’d come to Wyoming and, more important, why not tell Everly if he had a professional opinion about her brother’s death?

She clicked on the article, which was four years old. A string of killings—all single men—had stunned the hard-to-shock city of Las Vegas. The FBI, through their behavioral scientist, Thornton, had a suspect. On closer scrutiny, the suspect had an alibi for one of the killings. It was a fact that had been missed, or possibly suppressed, by Thornton.

The media didn’t have a killer, but they had an incompetent or possibly dishonest FBI agent. Thornton had been crucified by the press. And the killings? They stopped. One subsequent article wondered if it hadn’t been a fabrication of Thornton’s all along.

For a moment, she felt sorry for Wyatt. And then she wondered—if he’d have come to her for public-relations help, what would she have said? Probably that he should move someplace where no one knew who he was, or didn’t care.

At least she knew what he’d been trying to hide and why he wanted no part of a possible murder investigation.

She hesitated for only a minute before pushing back from the desk. She grabbed the keys to her rental car. As she picked up the hastily copied address, she made a decision. Wyatt Thornton had investigated murders before. He was an expert in unexplained crimes. He would know how to put all the puzzle pieces together and his was an expertise she was determined to use.

Chapter 3

Wyatt sat behind his desk and stared at the computer screen. Nearby, a fire crackled in the hearth. Gus was lying in the middle of the room, soaking up the warmth. Eyes closed, the dog’s chest rose and fell with each breath.

Call it a compulsion, but despite vowing that he’d leave the Axl Baker investigation alone, Wyatt had dug an old case file from where he stored his important paperwork in the spare bedroom. He’d also opened an internet search for the deceased. So far, there was nothing of interest. Criminal record: two DUIs along with one violation of the Illinois open-container law. All three incidents had occurred more than seven years ago.

Wyatt also found a testimonial from Axl detailing his time in a Chicago addiction treatment center, along with several of his photographs that were part of an auction held five years back. Since that time, there’d been nothing.

Professionally, Baker was a successful photographer who worked freelance for some of the world’s most popular nature magazines. Just as his sister had said, he had plenty of experience to survive a night or two outside in the wilderness. Could it be suicide? It was impossible to really know anyone. Still, taking his own life didn’t seem to fit the profile here.

Gus lifted his head and looked toward the window, letting out a bark.

He heard the engine a moment before he saw the car’s light cutting through the gathering storm. A car turned from the main road onto his driveway. The promised snow had arrived, and the car’s headlights illuminated the flakes as they fell.

Standing at the window, Wyatt peered into the storm. Gus moved to his side and lifted his paws to the sill, barking as the car pulled up to the house.

“I see her, boy.” Even from a distance, he could see the driver—Everly Baker. The feeling of her hand beneath his fingertips returned. The memory ran up his arm and traveled down his spine. With a shiver, he threw another log on the fire.

Gus began to bark in earnest and Wyatt saved the internet search for Axl Baker, then powered down his computer. The doorbell chimed, and he paused a moment. Everly Baker was the first visitor to his house and Wyatt’s jaw instinctively tightened.

He glanced around the room—sofa, desk, easy chair. TV on the wall. Exposed wooden beams on the ceiling. He’d done all the work to the house himself, knocking down walls to create a single room. More that, Wyatt had kept the original moldings and window seat. Through all his time and effort he had created more than a home—a refuge.

Yet, he hadn’t dedicated years to have his house invaded by an uninvited guest.

He opened the door and there she was, on his stoop, hand lifted and ready to knock. The wind whipped through her hair, making it look like she was surrounded by flames. She was more than beautiful, she was fierce—the vengeful goddess of a Celtic clan. Then he reminded himself that her problem was not his and he decided to be as unfriendly as possible. “What do you want?”

Gus nosed past Wyatt, his tail wagging. The dog approached Everly, panting.

She bent down and ran her hands through the dog’s coat. “Well, who’s a handsome boy?”

The dog licked Everly’s chin. So much for being unfriendly. She giggled.

“Gus, come here.”

His order went ignored.

“Gus,” he said, dropping his voice.

The dog looked over his shoulder and trotted to stand at Wyatt’s side.

“Sweet dog,” said Everly, rising to her feet.

Wyatt shrugged. “You didn’t come here to meet my dog. What do you want?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he said.

“It’s freezing out here and I just want to talk to you for a minute.” She blew on her hands and rubbed them together. “I bet Gus has a warm belly that he likes to have rubbed.”

The dog barked excitedly. Wyatt opened the door. “You can have a minute but leave my dog’s belly alone.”

After leading her to the den, he gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat.”

She sat as he took a chair opposite her. She slipped out of her coat and Wyatt took a moment to admire her outfit and the way it molded to her curves. A long, cream colored sweater accentuated her breasts and a pair of leggings skimmed over her long legs. Despite the simplicity of her outfit, Everly Baker was chic and totally out of place in his modified farmhouse.

“I won’t waste your time with small talk,” she began. “I need your help.”

“Lady,” he said. “I’m the wrong person to come to for help.”

She ignored his statement and continued to speak. “There’s something wrong regarding my brother’s death and I don’t know what it is. I get the feeling the sheriff wants this all to go away quickly and aside from him, there’s no one I can trust.” Everly paused, then said, “Except you.”

“What makes you think I’m trustworthy?”

Gus wandered to the sofa and placed his head on Everly’s lap.

Traitor.

“I did a little Googling.” She stroked the top of Gus’s head and continued, as if talking to the dog. “It wasn’t like the information was hard to find. I know who you are, Special Agent Thornton. More than that, I know that you can help me figure out what happened to my brother.”

Wyatt hadn’t been called Special Agent for years. Nor did he ever want to hear his old title spoken again. His insides turned cold and hard. “You really should leave.”

“The press didn’t treat you fairly,” Everly continued as if he hadn’t just ordered her from his home. “I mean, it’s their job to sell papers and get viewers—but I don’t think you did anything wrong.”

Who was she to decide how he’d been treated? She wasn’t there. She didn’t know what it was to have his life ruined by innuendo and implications. Rising to his feet, he pointed to the door. “Out,” he said.

Everly lifted her palms. “Like I said, I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. I need an expert and you’re an expert. I need you. I can pay, if that’s the problem. Just name your price.”

“My past is none of your business and I’m definitely not interested in your money.” His pulse raced, pounding in his skull. Clenching his teeth, Wyatt said, “Get the hell out of my house and don’t ever come back.”

Gus whimpered and slunk to his bed in the corner.

Everly stood. All the color drained from her cheeks, leaving her chalky. She drew in a deep breath. It didn’t do much for her complexion. “I didn’t mean to invade your privacy.”

Snorting, Wyatt said, “You’re kidding, right? You look me up on the internet, find out all my dirty secrets, get my address and then come to my house uninvited? The only thing you’ve done is invade my privacy.”