The Eyes Of Derek Archer

The murderer and the grieving widow who might have killed her own husband. Yes, she might have done it, Archer decided, eyeing Susan Wade’s tempting mouth. Incredibly, his suspicion made her seem even more attractive. Perhaps it gave them something in common….

After months on the run, Archer was good at sizing up people. As he watched Susan, an unexpected surge of pure desire washed over him. He wanted to unloosen the hair at the back of her neck so it streamed down her back. And he wanted to hold her tight.

But as Archer studied his menu, he told himself to back off. For his plan to work, he had to keep his distance. An attraction to Brian Wade’s widow would only interfere with Archer’s plans to get even with the men who’d betrayed him….

VICKIE YORK

Before becoming a writer, Vickie York served as a commissioned officer in both the U.S. Army and U.S. Air Force. After an assignment to the Defense Language Institute, she served as an intelligence officer for the rest of her military career. Vickie was awarded a Bronze Star for service during the Vietnam conflict. After traveling extensively, she now lives in Tacoma, Washington.

The Eyes of Derek Archer

Vickie York

www.millsandboon.co.uk

TO MY CRITIQUE GROUP

Joe Contris

Ethel Flannery

Darcea Schiesl

June Summerville

Gayla Goller

Thanks for all your piercing comments

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Susan Kirkpatrick, attorney;

George Sexton, cockpit design engineer, former air force pilot;

Carolyn Williamson, attorney

Contents

Prologue

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

Prologue

San Francisco

Hungry to read it again, he reached for the newspaper article describing his suicide and prior murder conviction. There it was, right where he’d put it, next to the pile of information he’d collected on the seven men who had witnessed the murder.

Over the past year, the article’s plastic jacket had become scratched from his constant handling. But his picture was still as clear as the day it was taken—a mug shot of a stone-faced man with vindictive staring eyes. The face of a killer, he thought grimly, reading the article for the third time that day, even though he knew the words by heart.

Captain Albright Missing

Police Suspect Suicide

Spokane, Washington. Air Force Captain Donald W. Albright may have leaped from the Tacoma Narrows Bridge early this morning, less than twenty-four hours after his conviction for the April 22 murder of his squadron commander, Major William F. Bradley. Bradley had commanded the C-130 squadron at Fairchild Air Force Base.

Out on bail pending appeal, the 31-year-old Air Academy graduate is believed to have jumped from the bridge’s central span at approximately 3:00 a.m. Witnesses saw a man in an air force uniform on the bridge at about that time. An hour later Albright’s Ford Explorer, containing his wallet, a note to his parents, and some personal belongings, was found by police parked on the east side of the bridge.

In spite of the note, there is some question whether Albright really committed suicide. Until the body is found, police will continue their search for the fugitive.

Go ahead. Try to find me, he thought, clenching his fists. With his appearance altered surgically, not even his own parents would recognize him now. The newspaper story went on to describe the scene at the Spokane tavern where the murder occurred. In detail it told how the lights flicked out, shots were fired, and the squadron commander was killed. Later, police found Albright’s fingerprints on the murder weapon. He knew the words as well as he knew his new identity and name: Derek Archer. Reading the article every day had become an obsession, like his dark desire for vengeance.

Pacing back and forth in his cell-like room, Archer remembered the damning trial testimonies of the other men at the stag party. Each had named him as the murderer. Supposedly his friends, they were all members of the same C-130 crew, having a beer bust with their squadron commander off base at a local tavern. With the lights out, how the hell did they know who fired the fatal shot? They couldn’t possibly have seen him in the darkness.

Most damaging was the story told by Brian Wade, the C-130 pilot, once his best friend. Wade swore Albright touched him when he lifted his arm to fire at Bradley. As he pictured Wade’s handsome, mocking face, bile rose in Archer’s throat. He’d touched no one during those fatal few seconds. He was damn sure of that.

Since Archer had faked his own suicide and changed his name, he’d been obsessed with only one thought. Get even. Every day he spent hours in his basement apartment poring over newspapers from the towns of the seven men who had witnessed against him. From the newspaper articles, data collected through the Freedom of Information Act, and various stolen computer files, he compiled a dossier on each man. Eventually he would destroy everything they held dear: their honor, their families, their property. That would teach them to turn on him.

Maybe he’d even kill them. Already convicted of one murder, he’d simply add seven more. In spite of the dank coldness of his unheated basement room, Archer felt himself start to sweat.

During the past few weeks a new element had been added, one he could use to his advantage. Two of his accusers had died in accidents. According to the newspapers, the authorities saw nothing suspicious in the deaths. But the other witnesses to the squadron commander’s murder would suspect that Don Albright—or his ghost—had struck them down for vengeance. He’d be a ghost, all right, a living spirit appearing out of nowhere to haunt them. By the time he was through with them, they’d wish they’d never been born.

Feeling like a caged animal, Archer stopped pacing and sat down in front of his scarred table. Though he didn’t have all the information he needed, he couldn’t let this opportunity pass.

It was time to confront Brian Wade, his principal accuser.

Chapter One

Spokane

With an odd mixture of rage and foreboding, Archer eyed his disguise in the men’s room mirror after his plane landed. The confrontation he’d planned with Brian Wade was risky. He didn’t want anyone to know for sure that he was still alive. But a face-to-face meeting was the only way to judge Wade’s reactions to the accidents. With this disguise added to his changed appearance, he should be able to protect his new identity.

A light brown wig with a big bald spot covered his short black hair. Thick horn-rimmed glasses hid his blue eyes and dark eyebrows. A fine film of white powder turned his emerging beard to a sandy color and gave him a careless, unkempt look. By stooping slightly to camouflage his six-feet height and adding a seedy gray overcoat, Archer guessed he looked twenty years older than his actual thirty-one. If he could only keep his cool, he’d be okay.

From the airport, Archer took a cab to Grand, and walked to a side street a block away from the Cathedral of St. John where Wade had agreed to meet him. Then he waited in the freezing January wind, hands shoved in his pockets, until he saw Wade’s green Buick park between piles of snow on E Street.

Wade, a fringe of red hair showing beneath his uniform hat, buttoned his overcoat as he locked his vehicle and started across the street toward the cathedral. Feeling his anger, Archer forced himself to subdue it.

What would his old buddy say when he heard two of Albright’s accusers had been killed in accidents? Though the deaths occurred in other cities, Wade might have heard of them. Would he suspect Don Albright was responsible—in retribution for last year’s murder conviction?

As far as Archer could determine, nobody was following Wade.

Still, he watched for a full ten minutes before leaving his hiding place behind a parked car. It was quiet on the street. On this frigid holiday afternoon, few pedestrians were willing to brave the biting wind and hard-packed snow on the sidewalks.

It was time to go. Archer sucked in his breath and concentrated on keeping his expression carefully neutral. Wade mustn’t see his festering rage. Stooping, he assumed a limp and moved slowly down the side street and across Grand. Wade glanced toward him but didn’t move from his position on the sidewalk in front of the cathedral.

Archer saw no recognition in Wade’s eyes as he approached.

“Captain Wade?” Archer asked.

“Yes. Are you Mr. Dillon?” While speaking, Wade turned his head sideways so he wouldn’t be facing into the biting wind.

Archer pulled his hand out of his pocket and shoved it toward Wade. “I’m Glenn Dillon, Captain Wade.” It was a false name to protect his new identity.

Wade shook Archer’s hand without removing his glove. His round face was tinged with crimson in the bitter cold.

“Just who the hell are you, Dillon?” Wade spit out the question in his raspy tenor voice. “What’s your interest in this case?”

“It’s to your advantage to talk to me,” Archer shot back. “That’s all you need to know.” He affected the same accent he’d used yesterday on the telephone when he made the appointment.

“Let’s hear your big news, Dillon.” Lifting his glove, Wade glanced down at his watch. “This better not take long. My wife and I have plans for the evening.”

“It won’t take long, Captain.” Archer pictured Susan Wade in his mind from the photographs he’d studied. Long gold-blond hair, brown eyes, sturdy frame. Mrs. Wade, an air force lieutenant, was the intelligence officer in Wade’s squadron. Though Archer had never met her, he’d known who she was when she answered the phone yesterday. They’d married only four months ago.

Poor woman, Archer had thought at first, aware of Wade’s many affairs. But then Archer had learned they’d known each other only five or six weeks before they married. If she was that impulsive, maybe they deserved each other.

“Well?” Wade asked, obviously irritated at Archer’s silence.

“The matter concerns two of the men who were witnesses to Captain Albright’s murder of your squadron commander last year—” Archer spoke slowly, dragging out the suspense. “The two who were transferred from Spokane to San Antonio and Colorado Springs.”

“What about them?” Wade asked tersely. Ignoring the wind, he leaned toward Archer, his eyes narrow.

“Did you know they both died in accidents recently?”

Wade muffled his quick intake of breath. Archer sensed rather than heard it.

“The police say the deaths were accidental, but I don’t believe it.” He paused, enjoying the momentary look of fright on Wade’s loathsome face. “How about you, Captain? Don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence?”

Archer felt Wade staring at him, and deliberately turned away so the other man wouldn’t see the hatred in his eyes.

“What’s it to you, Dillon?” Wade asked, his eyes accusing. “You’re starting to sound like a nosy private detective. Who the hell are you working for?”

“Nobody you know,” Archer returned, expecting the question. “I’m sure you’re not surprised that the case has attracted high-level attention.”

Wade’s face was carefully devoid of expression. “You think the accidents were arranged—that those men were killed—because of what happened last year?” His answer was cold, noncommittal, in the tone of a man used to hiding his emotions. But in spite of the keening wind, Archer heard a tiny tremor in his voice. Whether Wade had known about the accidents or not, Archer suspected that talking about them made him nervous.

“Damned right they were arranged,” Archer said.

“Then you must suspect that Captain Albright—the man convicted last year—didn’t commit suicide. That he had a hand in these deaths, too.” Wade was studying Archer’s face the way a hawk eyes a field mouse.

“Maybe,” Archer said, trying to sound thoughtful. “From what I read in the papers, Albright had a strong motive, and there’s some doubt about his suicide.”

A fierce gust of wind swallowed his words.

“What did you say?” Wade asked.

Nodding in the direction of the cathedral, Archer started toward the arched entry to the building’s west-facing wing where they’d have some protection from the wind. After a moment’s hesitation, Wade followed. The stairs had been cleared of snow, and they reached the vaulted entrance with no difficulty.

Masking his rage, Archer turned to face Wade. “I was talking about motives.” It was getting harder to keep his emotions hidden. In spite of the piercing cold, his face burned and his armpits were wet with perspiration. Wade’s face blurred before his eyes. He blinked, struggling to clear his vision.

Then he heard a cracking sound above the howling wind. Unbelieving, Archer watched Brian Wade’s big body topple forward, his crimson blood oozing onto the entryway’s white sandstone floor.

THE TELEPHONE was ringing when Susan Wade walked into her well-ordered office at Fairchild Air Force Base. She frowned, glancing at her watch. Six-thirty. And this was a holiday. The caller had to be Brian. He was going to be late again. She just knew it.

Oh, he’d have a good excuse. He always did. She was beginning to think Brian put her at the bottom of his priority list. He was never late for anything or anybody else.

The telephone rang again. She picked up the receiver. “Lieutenant Wade.”

“I’m glad I caught you, Susan.” It was her commanding officer, Major Savage. “I tried to reach you at home but got no answer.”

She tensed. The major never called anybody by their first name. Something must be wrong.

“Yes, sir,” she said automatically, conscious of her pounding heart.

“Would you stay in your office, please? I’ll be down to talk to you right away.” His usual authoritarian tone was gone. Instead, she heard a faint quiver in his voice, as though some emotion had touched him. The sound sent anxious tremors jolting through her. Could he have stumbled onto her covert mission at Fairchild? Heaven knows she’d spent enough time out on the flight line snooping around the C-130s. But nobody knew about her assignment except the military brass at the Pentagon Intelligence Agency. Not even the FBI or the treasury people had been informed about it.

“I’m not in uniform, sir.” She heard herself, weak and tremulous, and struggled to put more confidence in her voice. “Brian’s picking me up here as soon as he runs over the check-list with the ground crew for tomorrow morning’s flight. We’re going to dinner, then the reception at the club.”

“Civilian clothes will be fine, Lieutenant.” The major’s voice was still gentle, but a measure of his usual command authority was back. His changed tone made Susan feel better. Maybe it was nothing after all. Maybe he just wanted to discuss tomorrow morning’s briefing.

“This won’t take long,” he went on, “but it’s vital that I see you right away.”

A few minutes later he appeared in her open doorway, a somber expression on his hawklike face. Behind him was a heavyset colonel Susan recognized as the senior base chaplain. Standing to greet them, she felt the blood drain from her face. Why was the chaplain here? Had somebody died?

Major Savage, whose beak of a nose and sharp-sighted eyes matched his wiry appearance, took the empty seat beside her desk. The chaplain pulled one of her spare chairs near her desk and settled himself on it.

“Colonel Ratigan, this is Lieutenant Susan Wade,” Major Savage said.

The colonel reached out and clasped her hand between both of his. “I’m one of the chaplains here at Fairchild.”

“I know,” she blurted, scarcely aware of her own voice. “What’s happened?”

“Please sit down,” the colonel said.

Numbly, Susan sat.

The chaplain eyed her, his brow furrowed. “There’s been an…accident, Susan.”

“My husband?” She could hardly force the words out.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” Major Savage began, “but Brian’s been shot.”

She jumped to her feet. “Is he in the base hospital?”

“No, he’s not.” The chaplain rose and put his hand on her arm. “Captain Wade—well—he’s no longer with us.”

“You mean he’s dead? That’s impossible.” For a moment Susan wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. Shaking her head, she sank back into her chair. “You’ve made a mistake. Brian had an inspection scheduled for his ground crew this afternoon.” She heard her voice rising and knew she was on the verge of losing control. But she couldn’t help herself.

The major leaned toward her, lines of worry between his sharp-sighted blue eyes. “He must have left the base after his inspection, Susan.”

You’re wrong, she wanted to scream. He had a date with me. Why would he leave the base? Instead, she looked down at her hands twisted nervously in her lap. “It wasn’t him,” she said. “It couldn’t be. Someone’s made a terrible mistake.”

The chaplain shook his head. “There was no mistake, Susan. His ID card and driver’s license were in his wallet. The man they found was Brian.”

Waves of disbelief swept over her, and she struggled to keep from screaming. “I want to see the body.”

“Of course,” the chaplain said, glancing at Major Savage. He nodded slightly.

The room swam around her as tears blinded her eyes and choked her voice. Until now Susan had been able to fight this awful lie. But she couldn’t any longer. Unable to see clearly, she fumbled in her purse for a tissue. In front of her, a clean linen handkerchief appeared in the chaplain’s hand.

“Take it,” he urged gently.

He and Major Savage got up, and the two men turned away while she wiped her cheeks dry and blew her nose. Thank God they knew enough to give her some privacy. She heard the low murmur of their voices as from a great distance, though they were only a few feet away.

Finally she gained a measure of control over herself. But even then she couldn’t seem to function properly. When she tried to stand, her knees buckled. Leaning on her desk, she sank back to her seat.

An instant later, the chaplain pulled his chair closer and sat down. “Are you certain you’re up to seeing Brian right now, Susan?”

She nodded, swallowing her sobs.

“Come with us,” Major Savage said.

THE MORGUE WAS COLD and silent. An attendant ushered them into the sterile white room where the identification would be made.

Please let it be someone else, Susan prayed as she approached the gurney where the body lay. Holding her breath, she watched the attendant fold back the sheet. Brian’s face stared up at her, still and white.

All the breath seemed to leave her as she stood there rooted to the floor. Stepping closer, she touched his face with her fingertips. His skin felt cool and smooth, like old silk. Though he hadn’t lived up to her expectations, she couldn’t bear to see him like this. Standing there beside his body, she felt tears slipping down her cheeks.

“It’s him,” she said, unable to speak above a whisper. “It is Brian.” Finally the chaplain took her arm and eased her away from the table.

Shivering, she hugged her wool coat around herself. Though still inside the building, she felt cold, so terribly cold. Would she ever be warm again?

Not until she was in the car with Major Savage and Colonel Ratigan, headed back to the base, did she think to ask who fired the shot that killed him.

“Do the police know what happened?”

“They’ve already identified a person of interest,” Major Savage announced, glancing at her beside him in the front seat. “A taxi driver described a bald, middle-aged man who was in that area about the same time your husband got there.”

“An eyewitness?” Her mind was still too full of the horror of Brian’s cold, pallid face to digest the importance of what she was hearing. “Do the police know who he is?” She heard herself ask the question, but it was as if she were on autopilot and her intelligence training had kicked in.

“No, but they’re trying to track him down. It’s been only a couple of hours since…” He glanced at Susan. She stared rigidly ahead, willing herself not to break down.

She forced the stark image of Brian’s dead face out of her mind. “Do the police have a motive for the eyewitness?”

Major Savage didn’t answer right away. When he did, his words were halting. “Nothing was stolen. So maybe this terrible tragedy is tied into that murder last year of the major I replaced as squadron commander.”

In the back seat, the chaplain cleared his throat. “I don’t think this is a good time to talk about that.”

Susan jerked bolt upright on the seat. “What was his name? That air force captain who was convicted of the murder?”

“Don Albright,” Major Savage supplied.

Mulling over the case in her mind, she reached into her memory for bits of information. “Wasn’t there some doubt about his suicide?”

“There’s been speculation that he faked the leap from the Tacoma Narrows Bridge so he could jump bail and escape.” The major’s voice was cold and exact.

Susan clenched her hands together so tightly the knuckles cracked. “If Don Albright’s alive, he must be the one who killed Brian.” Anger released some of her grief, and she didn’t try to fight it. “I’ll see he pays if it’s the last thing I do.”

San Francisco

SEATED AT THE TABLE in his cramped room, Archer stared in disbelief at the picture on the front page of the Spokane Daily Chronicle. Though the focus was a little hazy, he easily recognized the man facing the camera.

It was himself, in the disguise he’d worn in Spokane. Stiff with shock, he read the news item under the picture.

Have you seen this man? the caption read. Eyewitness wanted for questioning in the Wade killing. The article went on to say that the picture was taken by a tourist visiting the cathedral. He’d sent the photo to the paper anonymously because he didn’t want to get involved.

Though only the back of the other man in the photograph was visible, the newspaper identified him as Air Force Captain Brian Wade, the officer who’d been murdered two weeks ago.

Archer crumpled the newspaper in his sweaty fists. Were the police trying to find the eyewitness because they thought he was the murderer? Lord knows, he’d dreamed of strangling Wade with his bare hands.

But the police couldn’t possibly suspect the man in the picture. With the sophisticated techniques available today, they had to know the bullet was fired from the street, not a foot away. But maybe they thought he’d moved from his photographed position and then committed the murder.

He turned his attention back to the picture. Where had it come from? Not from “a tourist who wanted to remain anonymous.” Archer was certain of that. Somebody wanted Glenn Dillon to be charged—either that, or to tell what he’d seen.

What had he seen? he asked himself. In the traumatic moment of Wade’s death, he hadn’t focused on anything but the body toppling toward him. Fuzzy images of a white, late-model sedan with a blond woman at the wheel appeared as indistinct figures in his memory.