Double Deception

“This is unbelievable.” Kate’s voice escalated with each syllable. “Of course I’m afraid. You’ve just arrested me.”

“How did your husband die?” Brody asked.

She flinched. The anger drained from her eyes before her gaze shifted downward. “He was murdered,” she answered at last, sounding forlorn and defenseless.

Her distress affected Brody. He didn’t want to be affected. He wanted to stay detached, uninvolved. But his protective instincts reared up, refusing to be ignored. “By whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you’re afraid you’re next?” He hadn’t meant his tone to sound harsh.

Though her peaches-and-cream complexion turned to chalk, she lifted her chin and sat up straighter. The staunch bravado may have returned, but she couldn’t quite hide the anxiety in her eyes.

TERRI REED

grew up in a small town nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. To entertain herself, she created stories in her head and when she put those stories to paper, her teachers in grade school, high school and college encouraged her imagination. Living in Italy as an exchange student whetted her appetite for travel, and modeling in New York, Chicago and San Francisco gave her a love for the big city, as well. She has also coached gymnastics and taught in a preschool. She enjoys walks on the beach, hikes in the mountains and exploring cities. From a young age she attended church, but it wasn’t until her thirties that she really understood the meaning of a faith-filled life. Now living in Portland, Oregon, with her college-sweetheart husband, two wonderful children, a rambunctious Australian shepherd and a fat guinea pig, she feels blessed to be able to share her stories and her faith with the world. She loves to hear from readers at P.O. Box 19555, Portland, OR 97280.

Double Deception

Terri Reed

Be strong and courageous, do not be afraid or tremble at them, for the Lord your God is the one who goes with you. He will not fail you or forsake you.

—Deuteronomy 31:6

To my husband, my hero. I love you always and forever.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

Brody McClain hated storms.

The pounding rain and swirling wind off the Nantucket Sound were relentless, like the nightmares that had plagued him for five years.

Old anger resurfaced and burned in his gut.

With a shake of his head, he pushed the memories aside and focused his attention back on the small cottage. Concentrate.

Lightning streaked across the sky and reflected off the windowpanes of the dark house, making the dormer windows glow like large, luminous eyes.

Brody crouched behind the branches of an ancient rhododendron. The blood in his head thudded in tempo with the rapid beat of his heart. He gritted his teeth, forcing his breathing under control.

After a moment, his vision cleared and his eyes adjusted to the night. Drops of rain streamed down his back, plastering his cotton shirt to his skin. Should have grabbed a jacket, McClain.

From beyond the house, above the roar of the churning surf crashing against the cape, a seagull’s high-pitched squawk protested the downpour.

I’m with you, buddy.

Blinding lightning pierced the midnight sky. More rumbling thunder nipped at its heels. Brody narrowed his gaze, staring at the large multipaned window near the front door, waiting impatiently for another flash to confirm what he thought he’d just seen.

Finally the light came. In that second of stunning brilliance he saw the silhouette.

Someone was in the house.

His fingers tightened around the grip of his Glock. He’d drawn his sidearm as he’d approached the house, heeding the familiar, gentle nudging he’d learned to respect. Only once had he ignored that inner signal. That mistake had cost him everything.

But that was then. Now…Brody moved soundlessly along the wraparound porch toward the back door. He tried the knob. Locked.

He pulled out a ring of keys and skimmed his finger along the flat surface of each, searching for the correct raised letter. He found the key marked with a K. He slipped it into the lock and opened the door.

A noise beyond the storm outside caught Kate Wheeler’s attention. Just scraps of sound really, like a hinge in need of oil. The noise went perfectly with the eerie shadows that played along the covered furniture, making the white sheets appear ghostly. Musty staleness mingled with the salty scent of the Atlantic Ocean permeated the air.

She shivered in the darkness, her imagination wreaking havoc on her nerves with thoughts of some unknown assassin stalking her.

Outside, the wind howled across the Nantucket Sound, a forlorn noise that echoed through the house.

Fighting to keep her anxiety from turning into panic, Kate leaned against the wall.

Lord, I’m really scared. I need Your courage.

She never should have come here tonight. She should have done the smart thing and waited for morning before coming to the house she hoped held answers to her husband’s death. But patience wasn’t one of her virtues.

Now she was stranded. The airport limousine service had disappeared long ago and the cell phone tucked in her purse was useless, the battery dead and the recharge cord forgotten at home. Given the circumstances of Paul’s death, she should have been more cautious.

Ever since his funeral the previous month, she’d had the uneasy feeling someone was watching her.

The sensation followed her everywhere, the constant impression of eyes observing her every move, taking stock, waiting for the right moment to attack.

I told them you have it.

Paul’s dire words rang in her head. If only she knew what “it” was.

Her condo in Los Angeles had been ransacked twice, which led her to believe that they—whoever they were—hadn’t found the mysterious object. She hoped she’d find answers to her questions here in this small Massachusetts town, starting with this place—a house she’d known nothing about.

She glanced around as hurt burrowed in deep. How long had Paul owned this oceanfront cottage? Why had he bought a house when he’d refused to purchase one with her, his wife?

Once she would have expected the trappings of a normal marriage.

Paul’s courtship had been the epitome of romance. They’d met at a Chamber of Commerce mixer. She’d been taken with his blond good looks and professional demeanor. He’d wooed her with candlelit dinners, roses at her door every Friday and touching love letters. She hadn’t been able to resist his hard press. He’d represented stability and security: everything she longed for, everything that had been missing in her childhood.

But after the wedding, he’d changed. Even though he’d championed her career, urging her to advance rapidly through the ranks of the bank where she worked, he’d become distant at home. At first she’d attributed his withdrawal to difficulty adjusting to marriage.

As time wore on, she’d become more confused. She didn’t know what she’d done to make him pull away. Throughout their four-year marriage, they’d been both physically and emotionally separated. The lack of love, respect and affection had cut her to her soul.

She’d tried everything to keep the marriage intact. She’d prayed every day. She’d sought professional help. But Paul had refused to go to counseling. He’d refused to talk to their pastor. He’d even stopped attending church. When people asked about him, she didn’t know what to say. They’d become strangers living in the same apartment.

Now he was dead and she was left to clean up the mess.

She pushed away from the wall. Though she’d never been afraid of the dark, the lack of electricity in the little seaside bungalow unnerved her. She moved to the rustic side table and finally located matches and a candle in the bottom drawer.

With shaky hands, Kate struck the match. Nothing. On her second try the little stick sputtered to life with a small burst of flame and she held the fire against the candle’s wick. But if she’d thought the light would quell her uneasy feeling, she was mistaken. Beyond the circle of light, the glow flickered, deepening the shadows and adding to the spooky feel of the room.

The wind increased in tempo. A branch grated along a wall and a chill darted over Kate’s flesh, raising goose bumps along her skin. A gust of air blew through the living room and the candle’s flame careened crazily out of control before sputtering to a silent death. Inky darkness once again descended, enveloping her.

Suddenly, the familiar sense of being watched became acute, wrapping around Kate like greedy hands, stealing her breath. She shuddered. She glanced about the room, the blackness overwhelming, menacing.

Nothing’s there. No one had been there for a month. She was safe here. She had to be.

Moving quickly toward the entryway where she’d left her suitcases and purse, Kate decided to find a bedroom where she could curl up beneath the blankets and wait for morning. Answers would be found in the daylight.

A flash of lightning exploded and threw the ebony night into stark relief. Her world appeared like a photo negative.

The harsh light illuminated the retreating figure of a man as he moved away from her through the kitchen.

A man with a gun.

The blood drained from her head. For a split second she wrestled with the sensation of dizziness. Her heart clutched before pounding in large, booming beats. The roar of blood rushing back to her brain flooded her ears, blocking out the sounds of the night.

He would see her if she moved to the front door. Her gaze darted in the direction of the bedrooms. If he found her there she’d be trapped. But what choice did she have? The bags slid from her slackened fingers to land soundlessly on the small area rug beneath her feet. Please, Lord, protect me. Because no one on earth would.

Then all was black again.

Once inside the cottage, Brody listened for any telltale sounds of the intruder, but the nocturnal noises beyond the walls of the house taunted his caution. Not wanting to announce his presence yet, he kept his flashlight attached to his belt.

Silently, he moved from the kitchen into the dining room. A large wooden table and several chairs made the area difficult to negotiate in the dark.

He breathed in. Beyond the musty, rank smell of disuse, an out-of-place scent drifted past his nostrils. The acrid smell of a burnt match.

On heightened alert, Brody moved forward, leading with his firearm. Once free of the dining room, he entered the living room. Another smell. A fragrance he recognized from his mother’s garden—the sweet scent of lilacs.

Light flashed. A sharp, loud bang exploded into the stillness and ricocheted off the walls.

Brody dove for cover. His heart hammered in his chest. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and his nerves stretched taut. For a beat of time he was back in Boston, seeing the flare of gunfire, reliving the agony of betrayal.

The sounds of his own breath wiped the memory away. Thunder, you idiot. The storm was playing games with his mind.

Crawling to the wall, he pressed his throbbing hip and back against its cool surface. He took a deep, calming breath and focused on the one constant in his life, his job. He could never forget what he had to do.

Peering around the corner into the entryway, he caught sight of a dark shape. He froze, his heart picked up speed again. Though his vision was 20/20, the darkness made it difficult to see. Brody expelled a harsh breath. He had no choice. He had to get closer.

Lying prone and using his forearms to move his body forward, Brody crept across the threshold between the two rooms, over the cold hardwood floor toward the dark form. Three feet away, he released the breath he’d been holding.

Luggage. Black leather, two large and one small carry-on type. He frowned and moved closer. He nudged them. Full.

What was going on?

A fragment of noise came from down the hall, toward the bedrooms. He slowly rose and in a low crouch, proceeded into the gloom of the long hallway. He stopped to listen for more sound to direct his way. None came.

He paused at the first door he came to and listened for a moment. No noise. Still he braced himself, fisted his flashlight and turned the knob. The door swung open. Brody flipped on the flashlight. His gaze swept the room. Nothing beneath the bed. But the closet…

Out of habit, he glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one was behind him. He pressed his back into the wall, closed his hand over the closet doorknob and slowly turned.

Kate had to find a way out of the house.

She stood in the middle of the second bedroom. A bed, a dresser, a nightstand and a closet. There was nowhere to hide. Forget the closet. She couldn’t take being in the small, confining space. Better to face her enemy and die in the open than wait meekly in what very well could be her coffin.

Chills slid over her body.

She didn’t dare go back down the hall, so that left the window above the bed. Stepping up onto the mattress, she grasped the handle and pulled upward.

The window wouldn’t budge. She tried the lock, but it refused to give. Using all of her strength, she managed to turn the lock, and yet the window still wouldn’t move. Running a hand over the wood, she found the problem. The window had been nailed shut.

She gritted her teeth in frustration as she fought desperate panic. The logical part of her mind that had always ruled her life clamped down on the urgent impulse to dive head-first through the glass and hope she got away in one piece.

An idea formed in her mind. Something she’d seen in a movie or read in a book.

Lord, let this work in real life.

Kate snatched the brass bedside lamp, yanking the cord from the wall. Taking a deep breath, she raised her arm and threw the lamp with all her might at the window. Glass shattered in a shower of chunks and slivers, mostly landing in the dirt on the outside the house, some falling inward onto the bed.

She cringed at the noise, then jumped from the bed and ran across the room to press her body against the wall beside the hinges of the door bare seconds before it burst open. The doorknob connected with her hipbone and she bit her lip to stifle a cry.

In hypnotic terror, she watched as the broad back of a man appeared within her line of vision. Please, don’t let him find me.

She squeezed farther into the corner. The man stopped in front of the open closet door, his head cocked to one side. He moved out of her view and she heard the barely perceptible creak of the mattress and a powerful beam of light lit the room. Kate closed her eyes and prayed her ruse had worked and he thought she’d escaped.

The light went out and she heard a soft thud. He’d stepped off the bed. A second later she heard him move toward the doorway. Tensing, she waited.

Through the crack between the door and the jamb she saw him pass by, a dimmer shape against the darkness. Relief coursed through her, making her knees weak. She hadn’t been found. Thank You, Lord.

Minutes ticked by. She heard the solid click of the front door being closed, the sound of the man retreating to take his search into the night. The waiting seemed eternal before she gathered enough nerve to emerge from behind the door.

Should she go through the house to escape? She turned to look at the broken window. The jagged edges would cut her to shreds. She didn’t have any choice. She had to go through the house.

Brody stood poised with his back against the wall at the mouth of the long, dark hallway. Clever trick, breaking the glass to make it look as if his prey had jumped out the window and escaped.

The second Brody had entered the bedroom he’d known he wasn’t alone. A tightening of his senses had made him aware of the other’s presence.

Even if his instincts hadn’t alerted him, he still would have known. No one could have gone out that window without cutting themselves and leaving a trail of blood. Besides, the lack of footprints in the soft, mossy dirt below the window, visible in his flashlight’s beam, had been a dead giveaway.

So he waited. Waited as a honed patience calmed his heart and readied his body. It was only a matter of time.

Inch by inch, Kate made her way down the pitch-black corridor, her hand guiding her past the doors to the other rooms. As she neared the living room she stopped. A familiar, yet strange sensation tickled her spine. She wasn’t alone.

On some deep, basic level she felt the man’s presence, sensed his heartbeat. She pressed her back flat against the wall and balled her hands into tight fists. It wasn’t fair. But then, God never promised life would be fair, only that He’d be there.

Her gaze slid from the grayer light of the house back to the darkness of the windowless hall. Was he behind her in the dark, inching his way toward her? Taking her lip between her teeth to keep tears and welling panic at bay, she stood immobile, unsure what her next move should be.

Tension coiled, her stomach churned and her lungs burned. She couldn’t go back. She had to go forward.

With a deep breath, she pushed from the wall and forced her legs to move fast. Adrenaline coursed through her limbs and her heart raced. She could see the front door. She just had to make it across the open entry way. Three more feet…iron cords wrapped around her, stopping her momentum with a jerk. She screamed as she was tackled to the ground.

Her head smacked against the hardwood and spots of light exploded before her eyes. A huge, muscled body landed on top of her, effectively pinning her beneath his hulking figure, and drove the air from her lungs.

Fear blasted up her spine. She was going to die, and it was all Paul’s fault.

With a grip of steel, the man yanked her arms over her head and held her wrists captive while another probing hand ran over her body. Numbing shock rippled through her, then the roaming hand stilled.

The man swore in a deep hiss near her ear and eased off her.

She took a shallow breath.

“You’re a woman,” a deep, rich voice accused.

The observation seemed ridiculous. Of course she was a woman. Did Paul’s murderer think Paul had been married to a monkey?

The ridiculous thought brought fear raging headlong into her consciousness. This man was here to get something she hadn’t a clue about, and then he would probably kill her the way he’d killed Paul. Then another thought flittered across her mind: what if he assaulted her before killing her? Oh, Lord, take me home quickly.

No. Not yet. Sheer terror spurred her into action. She twisted and turned, her body bucking in an effort to throw him off balance. Her hands pulled against the restraint of his grip, her legs struggled to find leverage on the floor, pushing and kicking wildly. The toe of her shoe made contact with a shin, eliciting a grunt of pain from her attacker. A moment of satisfaction brought a tightening to her lips.

Her knee flew upward but he rolled slightly, deflecting her hit to his hip. She ground her back teeth. She wasn’t going to let him win. She wasn’t ready to die.

“Hey, lady. Calm down.”

Calm down? He wanted her calm so he could kill her. Her grandmother had taught her that God hadn’t made women to be passive, but proactive. She’d fight with everything she had before she’d calmly let this man do her in.

Arching upward, she used her forehead as a ramming device. She connected with his chin, causing his teeth to come together with a snap. Pain shot through her.

For a moment his grip lessened and she took advantage of the opportunity. Freeing a hand, she lashed out, aiming for his eyes. She fell short, her nails raking sharply down his face, evoking a yowl of pain.

“That’s it!” The harsh words echoed through the house. He held her hands in a grip so tight she knew she’d never get free.

“No!” But still she fought, determined not to give up until the last breath left her body. Too many questions remained unanswered, too much pain still lived in her heart. Blind fear made her body convulse, desperate to break free.

The chink of metal somewhere above her head made her close her eyes. She didn’t want to see the torture device he would use on her and she prayed for oblivion. Oblivion and a painless death.

She cried out in surprise as he twisted her arm behind her and flipped her over. Cold metal encircled her wrists. A sharp snap filled her ears. And only then, from the far reaches of sanity, did she realize she’d been handcuffed. The man spoke in low, smooth tones, but her terror-fogged mind couldn’t grasp the words.

“Do you understand?” The steady cadence of his words, the richness of his voice, washed over her and a sense of unreality set in. Closing her eyes tightly, she readied herself for the journey to heaven.

The man grasped her shoulders and gently shook her. “Do you understand? Answer me!”

“No.” She didn’t understand why she was about to die. She didn’t understand how she’d come to this point in time. And she didn’t understand how she could have been so wrong about Paul. Who had she been married to? What kind of man had he really been? And why had he allowed this to happen to her? Unfortunately, she would die without the answers.

“Lady, how hard is it to understand? You’re under arrest.”

TWO

The woman beneath him stilled.

“Arrest?” The word came out in a dry croak.

“Yes, you’re under arrest.” Brody couldn’t see her face but he heard the rapid labor of her breath, felt the rise and fall of her chest where their ribs connected. And he was all too aware of the fact that his intruder was female. Soft and full of curves. The smell of lilacs he’d detected earlier wasn’t a remnant of the owner’s last visit, sporadic as they were.

The scent clung to his captive’s hair.

Pushing away, he came to his knees and helped her to a sitting position.

“You’re…you’re not here…to kill me?” Her voice faded to a hushed stillness and Brody heard the fear behind the words.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said in a calming tone. “Do you understand that anything you say can be used against you in a court of law—”

She made an odd noise. “You’re a cop?”

“Yes, ma’am. You have the right to an attorney. If—”

“I haven’t done anything,” she interrupted.

Brody ignored her protest and finished her Miranda rights then helped her to her feet as a bolt of lightning whitewashed the room. He caught a glimpse of an impish face and large, luminous eyes. The tip of her head barely reached the top of his shoulder. So much spirit in one so little. A spark of admiration for the way she’d fought him flared hot.

The light faded and the shadows returned, leaving him feeling unsettled. She certainly didn’t look like a criminal.

He heard her test the strength of the metal links between the cuffs.

“Are these really necessary?”

In the blackness, her voice rang cool and clear, yet Brody heard the underlying tension in her tone. Why did she think someone was out to kill her?