The road to redemption led through Mission Creek…

Deacon toyed now with the idea of coming clean with the local authorities, telling them who he was and why he was in Mission Creek. But he quickly dismissed the notion as hasty and foolish. No one would believe him anyway. He would have to find that one special person, that one open-minded individual who would be willing to suspend credulity long enough to hear him out. Who would be willing to set aside his or her preconceived notions of reality in order to get at the truth.

Was that someone Marly Jessop?

On first glance, Deacon would have said no. There was a guardedness about her, a self-preservation that suggested she would not easily be coaxed from the safety of her three-dimensional box. And yet something also told him that of all the people in Mission Creek, she might be the only one who could help him find the killer.

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

We have a superb lineup of outstanding romantic suspense this month starting with another round of QUANTUM MEN from Amanda Stevens. A Silent Storm is brewing in Texas and it’s about to break….

More great series continue with Harper Allen’s MEN OF THE DOUBLE B RANCH trilogy. A Desperado Lawman has his hands full with a spitfire who is every bit his match. As well, B.J. Daniels adds the second installment to her CASCADES CONCEALED miniseries with Day of Reckoning.

In Secret Witness by Jessica Andersen, a woman finds herself caught between a rock—a killer threatening her child—and a hard place—the detective in charge of the case. What will happen when she has to make the most inconceivable choice any woman can make?

Launching this month is a new promotion we are calling COWBOY COPS. Need I say more? Look for Behind the Shield by veteran Harlequin Intrigue author Sheryl Lynn. And newcomer, Rosemary Heim, contributes to DEAD BOLT with Memory Reload.

Enjoy!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Silent Storm
Amanda Stevens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amanda Stevens is the bestselling author of over thirty novels of romantic suspense. In addition to being a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, she is also the recipient of awards in Career Achievement in Romantic/Mystery and Career Achievement in Romantic/Suspense from Romantic Times magazine. She currently resides in Texas. To find out more about past, present and future projects, please visit her Web site at www.amandastevens.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Deputy Marly Jessop—A killer is on the prowl in Mission Creek, Texas, and the clues lead Marly back to her past.

Deacon Cage—His extraordinary skills connect him to the killer.

Sam Jessop—What is the secret he’s carried with him for years?

Chief Tony Navarro—The mysterious lawman has a way with the women.

Reverend Joshua Rush—His devotees will do anything to please him.

Max Perry—In this time of crisis, the high school counselor has made himself indispensable to the community.

Colonel Wesley Jessop—A megalomaniac who always has to be in control.

Andrea Wesley—A desperate woman in search of love.

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

Chapter One

The rain was relentless. It came down in a steady drizzle, with no let up in sight. Huddled on the front porch of a shabby little house on the outskirts of Mission Creek, Texas, Marly Jessop scanned the gray sky with a growing sense of unease.

Meteorologists were calling it the wettest spring South Texas had seen in over five decades, and they blamed the unusual precipitation on everything from El Niño to global warming. But Marly didn’t much care about the science behind the soggy forecast. She had very little knowledge of, or interest in, the upper-level troughs and low pressure systems the so-called experts kept babbling about on the evening news. What she did know was that the dreary weather was starting to wear on her nerves.

The weather…and now the suicides.

Three unnatural deaths in just over a week would be a disturbing phenomenon for any community, but in a town the size of Mission Creek—population 18,733 give or take—it was downright scary.

Wiping a nervous hand down the side of her uniform, Marly turned and knocked on the front door of the wood-frame house. When there was no answer, she gave a quick glance over her shoulder, as if expecting someone to sneak up on her.

But no one was about. The rain had chased everyone inside. The whole community wore an air of abandonment. No passing cars. No barking dogs. No kids playing in puddles.

The only sound came from the raindrops that pattered incessantly against the porch roof, whispered eerily through the citrus trees in the front yard until Marly wanted to lift her hands and cover her ears. The rain was almost like a presence, a ghostly entity that settled over Buena Vista, a blue-collar neighborhood for day laborers, automechanics and construction workers like Ricky Morales, who hadn’t been seen or heard from in over three days—according to an anonymous caller—despite the fact that his brand-new Ford pickup was parked underneath the carport.

Marly rapped on the door more insistently. “Ricky? You in there? It’s Marly. Marly Jessop. Chief Navarro sent me out here to check up on you. Some of your neighbors are getting worried about you. Come on now. Open up.”

Still getting no response, Marly put her ear to the door. She could hear nothing at first over the sound of the rain, but then came the faint tinkle of music. Whether it was coming from inside the house or from somewhere else—her imagination perhaps— Marly didn’t know, but the distant strains gave her an eerie sense of déjà vu.

Without warning her mind skidded back in time, and suddenly she was twelve years old again, a gawky adolescent on the cusp of womanhood as she stood on her grandmother’s front porch, calling through the door: “Grandma, you home? It’s me, Marlene. I came over to see if you’re okay. Mama was worried when you weren’t in church this morning. Grandma?”

There’d been no answer that time, either, just the low, mournful wail of trumpets and the singer’s achingly beautiful voice blending with the rain.

The record had been scratched, Marly remembered, so that one part played over and over:

…Gloomy Sunday…Gloomy Sunday…Gloomy Sunday…

She could see herself opening the door and stepping inside, her nose wrinkling at the abrasive odor of ammonia that could never quite dispel the old woman scent that permeated the house.

“Grandma?”

Walking quietly down the hallway, Marly glanced over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t leaving muddy footprints on the hardwood floor. Her grandmother hated dirt, almost as much as she despised children. Grubby creatures, she called Marly and her brother, Sam. Unsanitary heathens.

“Grandma?”

…Gloomy Sunday…Gloomy Sunday…Gloomy Sunday…

Marly followed the sound of the music up the stairs to her grandmother’s bedroom. Hanging from a ceiling beam, the old woman was suspended in a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight. Dust motes danced almost giddily in the air around her, and as Marly stared at the body in horror, she couldn’t help thinking how much her grandmother would hate to be found like this. In her own filth, she would call it.

She was missing a shoe, too, and if there was anything Isabel Jessop obsessed over more than her house, it was her appearance. She never wore anything but dresses, all specially made for her by a seamstress in San Antonio. Cotton for everyday and silk or linen for Sundays and special occasions. And she purchased her makeup and toiletries from the cosmetics department at Dillard’s. Wonderful smelling concoctions that came in lovely little bottles and jars, which Marly wasn’t allowed to touch, let alone sample.

Her grandmother was wearing one of her Sunday dresses now, a crisp lilac linen, and Marly could see the diamond earbobs she’d always coveted glittering from her grandmother’s lobes. In the split second before Marly screamed, she wondered what would happen to those earrings now…

…Gloomy Sunday…Gloomy Sunday…Gloomy Sunday…

The music faded with the memory, and Marly put a trembling hand to her mouth. Had she really heard that song? Or was her imagination playing tricks on her?

Considering everything that was going on in Mission Creek, it would be understandable if she had conjured the melody in her head. Everyone in town was on edge. Miss Gracie’s tragic suicide had been hard enough on the community, but then those two high school kids had OD’d four days later.

Marly shuddered. Mission Creek was a small town. She knew all the victims, and their deaths had affected her deeply. And they’d brought back her nightmares with a vengeance.

A wave of dizziness swept over her now, and for a moment, she rested her forehead against the door frame to keep from being sick.

She clenched her fists tightly, willing away the vertigo. This wimpy stuff wasn’t going to cut it. She was a peace officer in the township of Mission Creek, in the county of Durango, in the great state of Texas. She was sworn not only to uphold the law, but to serve and protect. If someone inside that house was in trouble, it was her duty to check out the situation and offer assistance. It might not be too late. This time might not be like the other…

But what if it was?

A hand fell on Marly’s shoulder, and for a split second, she froze in terror, certain that if she turned, she would find herself staring straight into the sightless eyes of her dead grandmother.

…Gloomy Sunday…Gloomy Sunday…Gloomy Sunday…

RAINDROPS POUNDED LIKE A WAR drum on top of Deacon Cage’s truck as he headed toward the outskirts of town. Impatiently he reached over the steering wheel to swipe his jacket sleeve across the windshield. He had the defroster going full blast, but the glass kept fogging up on him. And he was cold. Chilled to the bone even though the outside temperature hovered around sixty.

But the dampness slipped in through the vents, crept underneath the doors and around the windows. It came in like an omen. Like an anxious harbinger sent to warn the good people of Mission Creek that evil had slithered into their town while no one had been watching.

Okay, maybe that was a little on the melodramatic side, Deacon allowed as he glanced at the piece of paper where he’d scribbled an address. Not to mention apocalyptical. But it was hard not to take the weather as a sign given that the rain hadn’t let up for weeks.

No wonder there was such a dark, oppressive feel to the town. Deacon had arrived only yesterday and already the weather was getting under his skin.

Spotting his turn just ahead, he slowed, automatically glancing in the rearview mirror before he changed lanes. But there was no one on the wet street behind him. No one around for miles, it seemed. He might have been driving through a ghost town for all the signs of life he saw.

He had the radio turned to a local station, and the newscaster was talking about the suicides. That was all anyone talked about. The suicides and the rain.

Deacon listened for a moment, but there was nothing new in any of the cases. The autopsy reports showed that David Shelley and Amber Tyson, both honor students at Mission Creek High School, had taken lethal doses of a prescription sleeping medication containing benzodiazepine. Their bodies had been found the next morning on a remote road near an abandoned army base.

According to family and close friends, David and Amber were normal teenagers. They weren’t loners. They weren’t misfits. They didn’t have a history of drug use nor were they from broken or abusive homes. By all appearances, they had everything going for them, had bright futures ahead of them. So why had these two “normal” kids suddenly decided to take their own lives?

Why had Gracie Abbott, a seventy-three-year-old retired schoolteacher, who had been planning a trip to Greece in the fall with a favorite niece, driven her car into her garage one gloomy Sunday afternoon, rolled up the windows, and decided to end it all right then and there?

The actions made no sense to those who had known the victims best, but local law enforcement officials maintained that forensic evidence at both crime scenes was consistent with suicide. There was no reason to suspect foul play. After all, some of the highest suicide rates in the country were among the elderly and it was the third leading cause of death in teenagers.

So maybe Deacon was wrong about a connection. About a motive. About everything. He prayed that he was wrong.

But he didn’t think that he was.

He’d known the moment he crossed the city limits three days ago that something dark and sinister was at work here. A killer was on the prowl, a murderer so cunning that no one in town yet had a clue what they were up against.

But Deacon knew. He knew only too well.

And that was why he was here. The road to redemption led through Mission Creek—and straight to the killer.

“I’m coming for you,” he muttered into the silence.

As he made the turn into Buena Vista, a clap of thunder rumbled in the distance, deepening the chill inside his soul.

THE HAND TIGHTENED ON MARLEY’S shoulder, and she whipped around so fast, the person behind her jumped back. The woman lost her footing on the wet porch and would have tumbled down the steps if Marly hadn’t grabbed her in the nick of time.

Nona Ferris glared at her accusingly. “What the hell, Marly? You almost knocked me down those steps, girl.”

“Sorry. I didn’t hear you come up.” Marly reached around Nona and rescued the woman’s dripping umbrella from the steps, then propped it against the porch wall.

“You sure took your sweet time getting out here,” Nona complained. “I called the cops two hours ago.”

Marly lifted a brow in surprise. “You’re the one who called the station?”

“Yeah, but I never expected them to send you out here alone.” Nona carried a pack of cigarettes and lighter in one hand, and now she took a moment to light up. “I thought maybe Navarro would come out here himself.”

Was that why she’d called? Marly wondered. It wouldn’t be the first time a female citizen of Mission Creek had made a bogus call to the station hoping that Tony Navarro, the chief of police, would put in a personal appearance. He was tall, dark and ruggedly handsome with an enigmatic personality and a mysterious past that had, along with his looks, propelled his reputation to almost mythic proportions in Durango County.

Stifling a sigh, Marly got out her notebook and tried to appear professional. “Well, you know, being the chief of police and all, Navarro has a lot on his plate. I guess he thought I could handle this call myself.”

“The least he could do was send one of his deputies,” Nona grumbled.

“I am a deputy. See? I have a badge and everything.”

Nona cut her a glance. “Not that you don’t look real cute in your little Barney Fife uniform, honey, but you know what I mean.”

Marly knew what she meant all right. And strangely enough, she wasn’t offended by the woman’s attitude, probably because she’d known Nona forever. They’d gone to high school together, but in the years since graduation, poor Nona had gotten an advanced degree from the school of hard knocks. She’d once been a pretty girl, but now, dressed in faded yellow sweatpants that sagged in all the wrong places, she was a walking advertisement for too much hooch, sun and cheap hair bleach.

“When you called the station, you told Patty Fuentes that Ricky’s been missing for three days,” Marly said. “That right?”

“I wouldn’t say missing exactly. But something’s not right.”

“What do you mean?”

Nona gestured with her cigarette. “His truck’s been sitting in the carport for three solid days. Now you know Ricky. Even back in high school, he was always a real good worker. Never takes a day off unless he’s bad sick.”

“Maybe he is sick,” Marly suggested. “The flu’s going around.”

“Too sick to answer his phone? I even went over and hollered through the window at him. Didn’t hear a peep out of him.”

“Did you try the door?”

“No, but it’s not locked,” Nona said. “He broke the cheap-ass bolt they put on these houses a long time ago and never did get around to fixing it.”

“But you didn’t go in and check on him even though you knew the door was unlocked?”

Nona glanced away. “I didn’t think that’d be such a hot idea.”

“Why not?” Marly asked in surprise. “You and Ricky are still pretty close, aren’t you?”

Nona scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, Nona. You two have been together off and on since high school.”

“Yeah, well, now we’re just off, okay?” she said bitterly. “You understand how it is, don’t you? Times change. People move on.” She gave Marly a knowing look. “Kind of like you and Joshua Rush, I guess.”

Marly felt her stomach tighten at the mention of her ex-fiancé. They’d been through for months, but he continued to be a sore subject. She’d never told anyone the details of their breakup, even though people in town were openly curious. They were amazed, Marly suspected, that she’d let a catch like Joshua Rush slip through her fingers. “We were talking about you and Ricky,” she reminded Nona.

The woman shrugged. “Not much to tell. We had a falling out not too long ago. A real knock-down drag-out. Ricky warned me not to come around anymore, and considering how he likes to play around with that damn pistol of his, I was afraid the dumb sumbitch might shoot me if I did.” She took a long drag on her cigarette. “So that’s why I called the cops. Even Ricky’d think twice before plugging the law.”

That was some comfort, Marly supposed. She turned back to the door. “I guess I’d better go in and have a look around.”

“By yourself?” Nona asked uneasily. “Maybe you ought to call for backup or something.”

“It’s a little premature for that. Ricky’s probably just feeling under the weather—”

“But what if he isn’t? What if something bad has happened to him? What if he’s—” Nona broke off and glanced away.

Marly narrowed her gaze. “What if he’s what? You don’t know something you’re not telling me, do you?”

“’Course not.” Nona gnawed on her thumbnail. “But after what happened to those kids and old lady Abbott last week, a body can’t help being a little nervous.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing like that.” Marly prayed it was nothing like that. She knocked on the door again and called out Ricky’s name.

When there was still no answer, she tried the door. It swung open, revealing a dark, cavelike interior. The blinds had been drawn, shutting out what natural light might have come from the overcast sky, and there was a smell. A faint, telltale odor that made Marly’s stomach lurch.

She stepped back from the door and tried not to panic.

“Go back over to your house and call Patty,” she said with far more authority than she actually felt. “Tell her I may need some help out here. See if she can round up Boyd or A.J. or even the chief. Whoever is nearby.”

A look of dread flashed across Nona’s features. “Ricky…he’s not dead in there, is he?”

“Just go make the call, Nona. Hurry up now.”

“But—”

“Go on. This is police business. I know what I’m doing.”

Reluctantly Nona turned, hurried down the steps, then splashed her way across the tiny yard, slipping and sliding on her own wet porch before finally disappearing inside the house a minute or two later.

Marly stepped inside Morales’s house, pausing just across the threshold to get her bearings. The front entrance opened directly into the living room, which was separated from the eat-in kitchen on the right by a bar. A windowless door next to the refrigerator led out to the carport, and to the left, a narrow hallway trailed back to the bathroom and bedrooms.

“Ricky? You in here?” she called nervously.

The house was very quiet. Marly couldn’t even hear the usual household noises—the humming of the refrigerator, the ticking of a clock. Even the sound of the rain was muffled.

No music, either, she noticed. That was almost a relief.

But…there was something strange about the silence. Something…unnatural. It was as if everything inside Ricky’s house had suddenly stopped working.

Resting her hand on her weapon, Marly crossed the room to peer down the murky corridor. “Ricky? It’s Deputy Jessop. You in here?”

Still no answer.

Sweat beaded on Marly’s forehead as she started down the hallway. The door at the far end was slightly ajar, and as she approached it, the smell grew stronger, making her gag.

Pulling her shirt over her nose and mouth, Marly tried to work up her courage. She had a job to do. She was an officer of the law, and it didn’t matter that the most dangerous call she’d been on thus far in her short career with the Mission Creek Police Department was chasing down a pair of ten-year-old shoplifters at the Giant K. All that was about to change, and Marly knew she had to somehow rise to the occasion.

But the smell. She could feel it oozing into her sinuses, into her pores, even into her hair shafts. She’d heard about that smell from some of the veterans who taught at the academy. They’d talked about how it was unmistakable from any other scent, how it was almost impossible to get rid of once it got on you. How you were never able to forget it.

Don’t think about that now, a little voice warned her.

She tried to put herself on autopilot as she used the toe of her shoe to push open the door. The room was even darker than the rest of the house. She got out her flashlight and switched it on, then played the beam inside the room.

She couldn’t say she was surprised by what she found. On some level, she’d been expecting it. Dreading it. Preparing herself for it. But that didn’t make the scene any less horrifying.

Ricky Morales lay slumped on the bed, his face mercifully hidden from Marly’s view. But the gruesome splatter on the wall just above the headboard told her more than she wanted to know.

Chapter Two

Staggering back from the room, Marly clapped a hand to her mouth.

Oh, man. Oh, no.

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to ward off the nausea. Trying to block out the revulsion.

But it was too late. She was going to be sick. Collapsing against the wall, she tried to fight it.

What am I doing here? she wondered frantically. What had possessed her to enter law enforcement in the first place? She’d never had a burning desire to be a cop. It wasn’t some lifelong dream of hers. She wasn’t remotely suited for the job, and everyone in town knew it. She’d put in for the opening at the police department because after leaving her last position so abruptly, she’d desperately needed a job. Any job.

And then with just eight weeks of training at the Texas Law Enforcement Training Academy in San Antonio under her belt, they’d pinned a badge to her chest, strapped a .38 onto her hips and called her a deputy. But that didn’t mean she was qualified. That didn’t mean, even after nearly a year on the job, she was equipped to deal with the bloody mess inside that bedroom that had once been Ricky Morales’s face—

But she had to deal with it. She had to do something. Call for backup. Secure the scene…

A subtle noise somewhere nearby brought Marly’s head up with a jerk. She couldn’t tell what the sound was or even where it had come from, but the sudden knowledge that she was no longer alone chilled her blood.

She eased herself away from the wall and for the first time in her short law enforcement career, drew her weapon.

Heart pounding, her mouth dry with fear, she peered down the murky hallway toward the living room.

Someone was there. No doubt about it. She could see his silhouette at the end of the corridor. His features were indistinguishable, but he appeared huge as he started toward her.

Marly clutched her weapon with both hands. “Police! Stay right where you are!”

To her immense relief, the man froze. He didn’t so much as move a muscle that Marly could see, but she could feel his gaze on her. Dark. Intense. Cold. Gooseflesh prickled along the back of her neck.

“Hands behind your head,” she barked. “No sudden moves.”

Slowly he lifted his hands and clasped them behind his head.

Still gripping her weapon, Marly inched toward him. “Who are you?”

“Deacon Cage.” His voice was deep and smooth. A little too smooth, Marly decided.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I’m looking for Ricky Morales.”

“He a friend of yours?”

“Not exactly. He didn’t show up for work this morning so his boss sent me over here to check up on him.”

“This boss have a name?”

“Skip Manson. He’s a job foreman for Satterfield Construction. They’re building the new gymnasium at the high school.”

By this time, Marly was standing only a couple of feet from the stranger, and what she saw when she glanced up caused her heart to skip a beat. Dark hair. Dark eyes. High cheekbones and a well-shaped mouth. A chiseled jawline and a strong, determined chin.

Not bad, Marly thought. Not bad at all.

The stranger lifted a quizzical brow, as if he could tell exactly what she was thinking.

He couldn’t, of course, but heat washed over Marly’s cheeks just the same. To cover her embarrassment, she gave him a piercing glare. “Do you always enter private residences without an invitation, Mr. Cage?”

“The front door was open. Besides, when I saw the police car out front, I was afraid something might have happened to Morales.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “An accident maybe.”

The way he stared down at her was very unnerving.

It’s like he knows me, Marly thought with a shiver.

Taking a steadying breath, she tried to disregard the icy tingles shooting through her veins. “I’ll need to see some identification.”

She tensed when he started to lower his arms.

“I have to get my wallet from my back pocket,” he explained.

“Just don’t make any sudden moves,” she warned.

He fished out his wallet and slowly handed it to her. He was being very cooperative. Nothing in the least threatening about his attitude. So why did she feel so vulnerable? Marly wondered. So…exposed?

She scrutinized the picture on his California driver’s license, noting his age, address and physical description. To her dismay, her hand trembled as she folded the wallet and gave it back to him. “You’re a long way from home, Mr. Cage.”

“No law against that, is there?”

Marly ignored the question. “I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.”

“Why? Has something happened to Morales?”

“Just step outside, Mr. Cage.”

Something flickered in his eyes, a darkness that made Marly realize how alone they were in the house.

You have a gun on him. No way he can hurt you.

But when he made a slight move toward her, Marly jumped back like a nervous cat.

“I wouldn’t try that,” she warned.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Damn straight you’re not.” She clutched the gun.

He backed off, lifting his hands in acquiescence. “Look, I just want to know what happened here—”

A sound from the living room stopped him cold, and he seemed to grow very tense. “We’ve got company,” he said in that hair-raising voice of his.

Thank God, Marly thought. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could take being alone with him. He was a very intimidating man although she had no idea why she felt that way. He hadn’t threatened her. Hadn’t so much as said anything out of line to her. And yet her instincts told her he was dangerous. In more ways than she could possibly imagine.

Lifting her chin slightly, she tried to peer around him. “Who’s there?” she called out. “Identify yourself!”

A slight hesitation, then a male voice responded, “Tony Navarro. Jessop, is that you?”

The stranger jerked around at the sound of Navarro’s voice, and he stared down the hall for just a split second before he slowly turned back to face Marly. She caught her breath at the look on his face. If she’d thought him dangerous before, there was no doubt in her mind now. None at all.

What the hell was going on here? she wondered desperately. Who was he? And why was she so afraid of him?

There was something about him, something…not quite of this world. Not with those eyes. That voice…

Marly sucked in a sharp breath as she finally put a name to her fear. He was temptation.

She glanced toward the end of the hallway where Police Chief Tony Navarro had appeared. It might have been Marly’s imagination, but she could have sworn the testosterone level in the immediate area shot to a very perilous level.

Even under such grim circumstances, the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on her. She hadn’t had a date in almost a year, and now all of a sudden she found herself in the company of two tall, dark, dangerously attractive men. The chances of that happening in Mission Creek were slim to none, and just her luck, there was a corpse in the next room.

Chief Navarro was taller than Deacon Cage, but not by much. An inch or two only. His shoulders were a little broader, his hair a little darker, longer, just brushing his collar. He might have had a few years on Cage, too, but in a fair fight, Marly would be hard-pressed to predict a winner. The only sure bet was that both men would battle to the finish.

All this flashed through her mind in the blink of an eye, and in the next instant, when she saw Navarro’s hand ease toward his gun, she rushed to say, “It’s okay, Chief. Everything’s under control here.” Quickly she holstered her own weapon.

“What’s going on?” He pinned the stranger with a piercing gaze. “Who are you?”

“Deacon Cage.” That dark, liquidlike voice sent a fresh tremor through Marly.

She cleared her throat. “Uh, he says he works with Ricky Morales and he came here looking for him—”

“That’s not what I said.” Deacon’s gaze challenged hers. “I said Morales’s boss sent me over here to check up on him.”

Marly frowned. “I just assumed—”

“First rule of policework,” Navarro said slowly, as he started down the hallway toward them. “Never assume anything. You know that as well as I do, Deputy.”

Marly’s face flamed at her blunder, and she wondered if Deacon Cage had deliberately tried to make her look bad in front of Navarro.

Lifting her chin, she tried to rescue her dignity. “I was just asking Mr. Cage to wait outside, Chief.”

Navarro gave the man a curt nod. “Sounds like a good idea. But don’t go too far,” he advised. “We may have some questions for you.”

Deacon Cage hesitated as his gaze traveled from Marly to Navarro and then back to Marly. Lifting a speculative brow, he turned and strode down the hall without a word.

THE FIRST THING DEACON noticed when he stepped outside was that the rain had slackened to a sprinkle. He stood on the porch, listening to the steady drip-drip through the trees as he wondered what was going on inside Ricky Morales’s house. What kind of scene had Deputy Jessop stumbled upon that had left her looking so pale and shaken?

Deacon had a pretty good idea. After all, he was not unfamiliar with the scent of death. He’d smelled it before, more times than he cared to remember. One might even say he had an intimate relationship with the Grim Reaper.

He toyed with the idea of coming clean with the local authorities, telling them who he was and why he was in Mission Creek. But he quickly dismissed the notion as hasty and foolish. No one would believe him anyway. He would have to find that one special person, that one open-minded individual who would be willing to suspend credulity long enough to hear him out. Who would be willing to set aside his or her preconceived notions of reality in order to get at the truth.

Was that someone Deputy Jessop?

On first glance, Deacon would have said no. There was a guardedness about her, a self-preservation that suggested she would not easily be coaxed from the safety of her three-dimensional box. And yet something also told him that of all the people in Mission Creek, she might be the only one who could help him find the killer.

Or was that merely wishful thinking? Deacon mused. She was an attractive woman in a quiet, unassuming way, and he wouldn’t mind spending time with her, although he knew very well it could go nowhere. His stay here was temporary, and as soon as his mission was over, he’d move on. To the next town. To the next killer.

Besides, he came with too much baggage, lived with too many past sins. Slept with too many demons. Demons that would never be exorcised, no matter what he did or how hard he fought for salvation.

But that didn’t stop him from trying. That didn’t stop him from dreaming about the kind of freedom that was now only a distant memory. A memory he wasn’t even sure he could trust.

So here he was. In Mission Creek, Texas. On the trail of yet another killer. Someone who was very much like him. They were all like him in one way or another. And at one time, he’d been like them.

So, no, a relationship with Deputy Marly Jessop—or anyone else—wasn’t in the cards for Deacon, and he could allow her to become nothing more to him than a means to an end.

“Hey, you a cop?”

Deacon whirled at the sound of the female voice behind him, annoyed that he hadn’t heard her approach. But then he realized it was raining again, and the sound had masked the woman’s arrival.

She hurried up the porch steps, her brittle blue gaze openly curious as she gave him a lengthy inspection. She was probably no more than thirty and had once been, Deacon suspected, very pretty in an in-your-face kind of way. But now she had the hardened features of someone who had already experienced a lifetime of disappointment.

“I’m not a cop,” Deacon told her.

“Didn’t think so. I know all the cops around here, and I’ve never seen you before.” She lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke on a quick breath. “So who are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“My name is Deacon Cage.”

She propped her right elbow in her left hand, letting the cigarette smolder between her fingers. “I’m Nona. I live across the street.” She head-gestured over her shoulder at a little house almost identical to Morales’s. “You a friend of Ricky’s?”

“Not exactly. But we have a mutual acquaintance.”

“A mutual acquaintance, huh?” She gave him a doubtful glance. “Pardon me for saying so, but you don’t exactly look like the type Ricky usually hangs out with.”

“Well, you know what they say. Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Ain’t that the damn truth?” Appreciation flashed in her eyes as she gave him another quick assessment. “I saw you come out of the house a few minutes ago. Did you talk to Marly?”

“You mean Deputy Jessop? We spoke briefly.”

“What’d she say about Ricky?”

“She wouldn’t tell me anything,” Deacon replied truthfully.

“Doesn’t matter.” Nona stared out at the rain, her expression suddenly forlorn. “I already know he’s dead.”

“How do you know?”

She shrugged, the action not so much one of nonchalance as acceptance. “Because people are dropping like flies around here.”

“You mean the suicides?” Deacon asked carefully.

“You know what I think?” She gave him an anxious look. “I think it’s the weather. All this damn rain. It’s depressing as hell. Enough to make anyone wacko.” She grimaced. “Marly must be freaking out, though.”

“Because of the weather?”

Nona glanced back at the rain. “No, because of the suicides.”

“What do you mean?”

She hesitated. “Let’s just say, Marly has some issues and leave it at that, okay?”

What kind of issues? Deacon wanted to ask, but he didn’t press her. He had a feeling Nona was a woman who liked to talk, and with a little patience, he’d find out everything he wanted to know from her without having to resort to anything…drastic. “You sound as if you know Deputy Jessop pretty well.”

Nona shrugged again. “Not really. We went to high school together, but we didn’t exactly hang out with the same crowd, if you know what I mean. Marly was the straight-A-honor-roll type of girl while I was—” She broke off and gave him a side-long glance. “You might say I had a different set of priorities in high school.”

Deacon nodded. “Fair enough.”

“I sure as hell never would have pictured her as a cop, though.”

“Why not?”

Nona watched a cloud of smoke drift off the porch. “She’s just not cut out for it. Too much of a goody-goody. Let’s people push her around all the time. Especially her old man.”

“Her husband?”

Nona shook her head. “She’s not married. No, I’m talking about her father. He’s a retired army colonel. Used to be the base commander over at Fort Stanton before it closed. Not exactly Mr. Personality, if you get my drift. I knew some of the guys who were stationed there, and they hated his guts. Said he was one mean son of a bitch.” She paused to take another drag on her cigarette, then expelled the smoke on a nervous laugh. “I don’t mean to bend your ear like this. It’s just…I have a tendency to talk too much when I get jittery.” She tossed the cigarette butt over the porch railing and watched it sizzle in the wet grass. “Smoke too much, too.”

“I don’t mind. I’m enjoying our conversation,” Deacon said.

“Yeah?” Her gaze turned speculative as she gave him another careful once-over.

“You were telling me about Marly Jessop’s father, the retired army colonel,” he gently coaxed.

Nona nodded. “My mother used to be their housekeeper, see. That’s how come I know so much about them. She’s got stories about that family that could curl your hair, let me tell you. She always felt real bad for Marly and Sam, though.”

“Sam?”

“Marly’s brother.”

“Does he live here in Mission Creek?”

“He came back here after he left the service. He’s moved into their grandmother’s old place. Really got it fixed up nice. I even noticed when I drove by there the other day that he has the garage apartment up for rent. Not that I’m interested, mind you.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “You couldn’t pay me enough. Even if it would mean getting to see Sam every day, and that’s saying something for me. Always did have a thing for him.”

Deacon worked to keep his expression neutral. “You say he was in the service? Which branch?”

“The army, just like his father and grandfather. The grandfather was some big shot general at the Pentagon or something. Sam was supposed to follow in their footsteps, but he quit after a few years and came back here to teach school. From what I hear, the old man nearly had a stroke over it. But Mama said he always did try to run those kids’ lives. Stayed on their cases all the damn time. They never could do anything right. I guess it’s no wonder Marly turned out the way she has.”

“What do you mean?”

Nona thought for a moment. “She’s just…different. She has this way about her. Kind of like…she knows things the rest of us don’t? It’s hard to explain, but I guess being strange runs in that family when you consider what her grandmother did.” She leaned toward Deacon and lowered her voice. “Remember what I said about Marly having issues?”

He nodded.

“Well, old lady Jessop hanged herself when Marly was just twelve. Marly was the one who found the body. I don’t think she ever got over it.”

“Be hard to get over something like that,” Deacon muttered.

Nona lit up another cigarette. “Kind of creepy when you think about it, though. Marly was the one who found her grandmother all those years ago, and now here she is a cop, having to investigate all these other suicides. That’s what I call a really weird-ass coincidence.”

Weird maybe. But Deacon didn’t really believe in coincidences.

Chapter Three

Dr. Alvin Pliner, the Durango County medical examiner, snapped on a pair of latex gloves as he approached the corpse with what Marly perceived as an unseemly amount of enthusiasm. Here was a man who clearly enjoyed his job, she thought with a shudder.

“You’ve protected the crime scene, I assume.” He made the prospect sound doubtful.

“Don’t worry, it’s virgin,” Navarro assured him. He gave Marly a slight wink at the medical examiner’s pomposity, and her stomach fluttered uncomfortably. Navarro had that kind of effect. He was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, and the .357 Magnum he wore strapped to his hip gave him a certain bad-ass cachet that was downright irresistible.

All the women in town were half in love with him, but no one really knew much about him. An ex-Navy SEAL, he’d come to Mission Creek a little over a year ago to meet with the mayor and the city council, and whatever had gone down in those closed-door sessions had convinced them to hire him on the spot as the new chief of police.

From the very first, he’d been a different kind of cop than his predecessor. Boyd Hendrickson had been an aging lawman who had been all too content to coast along until his retirement. No one could accuse Navarro of complacency. He took an active role in every investigation, but he also remained somewhat of an outsider in the department, eschewing the standard uniform for jeans, boots, and on chilly days like today, a black leather jacket that made him seem cool, aloof and more than a little dangerous.

Marly dropped her gaze and tried to focus on Dr. Pliner as he moved his gloved hands with quick efficiency over the body. “He’s dead all right. Did you notice the blowback on his right hand? GPR is going to turn up positive, I can almost guarantee.”

“So you think it’s another suicide,” Navarro said quietly.

“Lucky Number Four,” Pliner agreed. “Although not so lucky for this poor bastard. I’ll be able to tell you more about time of death after the autopsy.”

He continued to poke and prod the corpse until Marly, still in danger of losing the contents of her stomach, had to leave the room. She walked down the hall into the living area and stood gazing around.

The room was sparsely furnished with a battered old sofa and recliner arranged around a small TV. The walls were decorated with Houston Astros and Harley-Davidson memorabilia, and the dining room table was strewn with mechanical parts, probably from the vintage Harley she’d seen under the carport. Marly could picture Ricky sitting there at night, listening to a baseball game on TV while he painstakingly restored and rebuilt piece by piece what had undoubtedly been his pride and joy.

Being in his house, examining his personal belongings was a little too much like having a glimpse into the man’s private dreams, Marly thought. She didn’t want to poke and prod into every aspect of his life, rip away the last vestiges of his dignity. All she really wanted was to go home, climb into a hot shower and wash that awful scent from her hair and from her skin. And from her memory, if possible.

She wasn’t like Navarro. She wasn’t the kind of cop who could walk away from a gruesome scene and put it out of her mind. Ricky Morales’s death would eat at her. His sightless eyes would haunt her sleep for years to come.

Handing out traffic citations was one thing, but all these deaths…

Marly hadn’t signed on for anything like this, and she toyed with the idea of handing in her resignation. She could just walk out the door and not look back, and no one would really be all that surprised. If anything, the people who knew her best were shocked that she’d stuck it out for this long.

Quitter, a voice inside her taunted. A voice that sounded very much like her father’s.

Well, better a quitter who could sleep at night, Marly reasoned.

Navarro had once told her that she had what it took to be a good cop. She had all the right instincts, he’d said. But did she have the guts?

It was a good question, and one Marly still wasn’t sure she could answer. Especially now, when her instincts were telling her something she didn’t want to hear.

Something bad was happening in Mission Creek. Something…evil.

And Marly didn’t have a clue how to fight it.

WHEN DEPUTY JESSOP FINALLY emerged from the house, she hurried down the porch steps without even a glance in Deacon’s direction. For a moment, it looked as if she were fleeing from the devil himself, and Deacon wondered if he should follow her. Find out what the hell was going on. But then one of the police officers who’d arrived on the scene just after the medical examiner called out to her and she paused. She turned and—reluctantly it seemed to Deacon—walked over to consult with her colleague.

Deacon studied her carefully, noting the flicker of emotions across her face, the almost convulsive movement of her hands. He remembered what Nona had said about her earlier, that she wasn’t cut out to be a cop. She was too much of a goody-goody. She let people push her around.

Maybe.

But in the few moments they’d stood talking in the hallway, Deacon had glimpsed something that made him think there was more to Marly Jessop than met the eye. She possessed the kind of innate courage that had allowed her to stand her ground even in the face of what she had obviously perceived as grave danger. That courage was buried deep, he suspected, but it was there, nonetheless. And if he was right about the nature of these recent deaths, she would need every ounce she could muster in the coming days. They both would.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Marly glanced up and their gazes met across the yard before she quickly looked away. But in that moment, something passed between them. Attraction—at least on Deacon’s part—but something else, too. A flash of understanding or perhaps even precognition that their paths had crossed for a reason.

Lifting a hand to the back of her neck, Marly continued to speak with the other officer. After a moment, he returned to his squad car and drove off while she sloshed back over to the porch.

Nona, who had been smoking quietly as she observed the exchange in the yard, tossed her cigarette over the rail. “You gonna finally tell us what happened to Ricky or what?”

Marly climbed the steps slowly. “I’m sorry, Nona. Ricky’s dead.”

“I already know that.” Nona’s tone was hard as nails, but her eyes glittered with emotion. “I want to know how it happened.”

Marly’s gaze slid to Deacon’s. “Nona, would you mind waiting for me at your house? I need to have a word with Mr. Cage here.” When the woman started to protest, Marly laid a hand on her sleeve. “I’ll come over as soon as I’m finished and tell you what I can.”

Nona sighed. “All right, but don’t leave me hanging, okay? Ricky and I go way back. We may’ve had our differences, but I’ve got a right to know what happened to him.”

Marly waited until Nona had exited the porch before she turned back to Deacon. She tilted her head to gaze up at him, and Deacon realized suddenly how tiny she was. How young she looked with her dark blond hair chopped off short and plastered to her head. She wore no makeup, and the freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose gave her a wholesome, girl-next-door look. But her eyes—an odd shade of gold—reflected a hint of bitterness that made Deacon wonder about her past.

Something tightened inside him, and not for the first time, he wished he was someone—or something—other than who he was. He wished he was the type of man who could have a woman like Marly Jessop.

He could have her. He had the power to make her his. All he had to do was look deeply into those golden eyes and make her want him. Make her believe that she couldn’t live without him, that she would do anything in the world to have him. And just like that, she would be his.

For a little while. Until she learned the truth about him.

Then she would hate him. And she would have every right.

Reluctantly he broke eye contact and turned his gaze to the rain. Beside him, Marly stirred restlessly, as if sensing more than he wanted her to.

“Why’d you come back?” he asked softly.

She glanced at him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

He nodded toward the street. “You were leaving, weren’t you? Running away? What made you come back?”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “You don’t know me, Mr. Cage, so don’t presume you understand anything about me. Besides, I’m here to ask the questions.”

He gave a brief nod. “Go ahead then.”

“What are you doing in Mission Creek? What’s your business here?”

“I’m just passing through.”

“On your way to…?”

He shrugged. “West.”

One brow lifted. “West of Mission Creek? West of Texas? West encompasses a lot of territory.”

“I’m not exactly sure what my plans are. But I do know that I’m not breaking any laws by being here.”

Her features tightened. “You’re always quick to point that out, aren’t you? If I were the suspicious type, I might think you have a guilty conscience.”

“Am I under suspicion for something?” he asked bluntly.

Her gaze faltered, but she still didn’t look away. “No. I am a little curious about the way you turned up here, though.”

“I explained all that. Morales’s boss sent me over here to check up on him.”

“Why you?”

He shrugged. “I stopped by the construction site to inquire about work. I’d heard around town they were hiring.”

Marly frowned. “You’re looking for work here? Sounds like you intend to stay awhile.”

“As I said, I don’t have any firm plans at the moment. But I can always use the extra cash.” Her eyes were very expressive, Deacon thought. And very beautiful. Like pools of liquid gold.

Her scowl deepened. “So you stopped by the job site to ask about work, and the foreman sent you over here to check up on Ricky. Just out of the blue?”

“He mentioned that Morales hadn’t been showing up for work. He was worried about him, but he couldn’t take the time to come over here himself.”

“So you volunteered.”

Deacon stared down at her. “Never hurts to get in good with the boss, right?”

Something flickered in her eyes, a tiny embarrassment that made Deacon remember how she’d looked when Navarro had first arrived on the scene. Nervous. Disconcerted. Her voice had been breathless when she’d called out to him. Was there something going on between them?

Not that it would matter in the long run. But it might make what Deacon had to do a little more difficult if she was involved with someone.

Marly’s gaze turned suddenly defiant, as if she’d somehow sensed what he was up to. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here,” she muttered. “But something tells me I’m not getting the whole truth out of you yet.”

“Does it matter why I’m here?” He looked into her eyes. Tried to peer all the way into her soul. “You have more important things to worry about, don’t you? There’ve been four suicides in your town in a ten-day period. I’d say you’ve got bigger problems than me, Deputy.”

“You think I don’t know that?” she snapped. “But I never said Ricky Morales committed suicide.”

“You didn’t have to.” Deacon watched her for a moment. “I can help you, Marly.”

“What are you talking about? Help me how?” Her tone was indignant.

“You and I both know these suicides aren’t what they seem.”

A shadow flickered in her eyes, and for a moment, she looked as if she was on the verge of agreeing with him. Then her rational side took over and her resolve hardened. “There’s no reason to suspect foul play. Forensic evidence at every one of the scenes—”

“Is consistent with suicide. Yes, I know. I’m not suggesting these people didn’t die by their own hand. I have no doubt that Gracie Abbott drove her car into her garage, rolled up all the windows and let the carbon monoxide do its job. I’m certain those two kids purposely took overdoses and Ricky Morales pulled that trigger. What I am suggesting is that they were somehow compelled to do it.”

Marly gave him an incredulous look. “Compelled? How on earth do you compel someone to commit suicide?”

“It’s been done before,” Deacon said. “A man named Jim Jones led more than nine hundred of his followers to their deaths at Jonestown, Guyana, by drinking a cyanide-laced punch. Thirty-nine Heaven’s Gate devotees were found dead in a mansion near San Diego, California. I could go on, but I think you get my point.”

A myriad of emotions flashed across Marly’s features. Revulsion. Horror. Disbelief. But she didn’t turn away. She didn’t send him packing. She was listening whether she wanted to or not. “You’re not suggesting something like that is going on here, are you?”

“I’m suggesting you need to keep an open mind if you want to stop this.”

She tore her gaze from his and stared across the yard where a small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. A breeze whispered through the orange trees in the front yard, and overhead, the rain beat a steady staccato on the porch roof.

It was a long time before she spoke. And even then, she avoided his gaze, as if sensing eye contact with him could be a dangerous thing. She watched the rain with a brooding frown. “In those cases you cited, the bodies were all found together. It’s happening one at a time here. And the incidents appear unrelated. An elderly woman. Two teenagers. A construction worker. Where’s the connection?”

“That’s what we have to find out,” Deacon said.

“We?”

“Like I said, I can help you.”

He saw her shiver at the prospect. “If you have information regarding any of these deaths, you should take it to Chief Navarro. He’s heading up the investigations.”

“I’m telling you, Marly. Because you know something bad is happening is this town. You know something’s not right about these deaths. I can see it in your eyes.” His gaze challenged hers. “And whether you want to admit it or not, you may be the only one who can stop it.”

DEACON FIDDLED WITH THE RADIO dial in his truck as he kept an eye on the front porch of Ricky Morales’s house. After his conversation with Marly, he’d left the scene at her rather adamant insistence, circled the block a couple of times, then pulled his truck to the curb a few houses down where he could unobtrusively observe the comings and goings of the authorities.

A hearse from a local funeral home had arrived on the scene just after Deacon had left which meant they would soon bring out the body. Onlookers mingled on the sidewalk, and Deacon knew that word would soon be all over town about Morales’s death. In a day or two, the autopsy would confirm suicide, and the case would be closed. There would be lingering speculation, of course, but no one in Mission Creek would seriously suspect homicide. No one except Deacon…and now Marly Jessop.

She was still standing on the front porch, speaking to another deputy. Deacon couldn’t see her features through the rain, but he remembered all too vividly the nuances of her face—those golden eyes, those lips that were neither thin nor full but lush, nonetheless, and pliant, he somehow knew. He imagined running his thumb along that mouth, then tasting her with his tongue, teasing and coaxing until she opened like a flower beneath him.

Did she have any idea how attractive she was? How sensual? Deacon knew instinctively that she was a complicated woman, and he wondered if any man had ever taken the time to really know her. If any man had taken the time to nurture her latent passion into full bloom.

Because she was a passionate woman, he thought. Beneath her cool, almost nondescript façade he’d glimpsed an ember, a tiny, ardent flame just waiting to be stoked, by a patient hand, into a raging inferno of needs and desires.

He rubbed a hand across his eyes, trying to erase the vision of an aroused Marly Jessop. That kind of thinking was dangerous because it could make him lose sight of the mission. He was here for one reason only. To stop a killer, and to do so, he needed Marly’s help. Beyond that, his feelings for her couldn’t be allowed to matter.

But what if she refused to help him? What if he couldn’t make her accept the truth?

He had ways of gaining her cooperation, of course. Ways of convincing her. But afterward, she would never trust him again.

Well, so be it, he decided grimly.

The cell phone on the truck seat rang and he lifted it to his ear. “Cage.”

“Deacon, it’s Camille.”

At the sound of his colleague’s voice, Deacon tensed. “What’s wrong?”

“Grandfather—”

“He’s worse?” Deacon’s hand tightened on the phone.

“No, no, it’s not that,” Camille rushed to assure him. “He just wanted to make sure you’re okay. He has a bad feeling about this job, Deacon.”

Deacon let out a breath of relief. “He has a bad feeling about every job.”

“I know. It’s because…he feels we’re running out of time.”

Deacon sometimes felt that way, too. There were so many of them out there. A secret army of soldiers who had been trained and programmed to kill…and couldn’t stop.

And Deacon had once been one of them.

He didn’t like to contemplate what his life might have been like if Dr. Nicholas Kessler, a renowned quantum physicist, and his granddaughter hadn’t found him when they had. Hadn’t recruited him to the good side as Camille liked to tease him.

“As much as it pains me to admit it, Grandfather isn’t going to be around forever,” she said. “He’ll be eighty-nine his next birthday.”

“And still as sharp as ever,” Deacon reminded her.

“His mind, yes, but his body is failing him, Deacon. You know how frail he is. I can’t help worrying what will happen to our work when he’s gone.”

Deacon shrugged. “We’ll carry on as we have been.”

“You’ll take over the organization when the time comes?” she asked anxiously.

“You’re more qualified to run it than I am,” he said with a frown. “Besides, I like being in the field.”

“I know you do. And that’s what worries me because one of these days…”

“One of these days, what?”

She hesitated. “One of these days you may meet your match out there.”

“That’s not going to happen.” But Deacon knew it could easily happen because on every mission the killer always had the advantage. He was on his home turf, and the only way for Deacon to even the odds was to recruit someone locally to help him. Someone like Marly Jessop.

He said none of that to Camille, however, because she tended to be a worrier and she had too much on her plate as it was. She was right. Her grandfather might not last much longer, and when the time came, Nicholas’s death would hit her hard. She’d lost her only child not so long ago, and though she put up a brave front, Deacon knew she hadn’t recovered from the blow. Her grandfather and her work were all she had left.

And at that, she had a damn sight more than Deacon.

“So how are things going down there?” she asked, and Deacon could tell she was deliberately changing the subject.

“There’s been another death,” he said, his gaze riveted to the front of Ricky Morales’s house. They were bringing out the body. He watched as they hauled the stretcher down the steps and across the soggy yard to the hearse. Marly was talking to Navarro now, and Deacon frowned. There was something about her body language…something about the way she looked up at her superior…

“Deacon?”

He gritted his teeth and glanced away. “Yeah, I’m still here. I’m at the scene now.”

“Is it…a suicide?”

“There’s suicide and there’s suicide,” he said.

“Yes, I know.” Deacon could picture her seated behind her computer, dark hair pulled back and fastened primly at her nape as she scowled at her screen. Her full lips would be pursed in concentration, her violet eyes shadowed with a grief that had only deepened in the months since her son’s death. “Do you have any leads?”

“Nothing concrete. I have a couple of names I’d like you to run through the usual databases, though. I don’t expect anything to turn up, but you never know. The first one is Tony Navarro. He’s the chief of police down here.”

“Any particular reason you’re interested in him?”

Deacon’s gaze went back to the couple on the porch. “Just a gut instinct.”

“You really think the chief of police could be one of them?” Camille persisted. She must have sensed something in his voice. Sometimes her instincts were uncanny.

“One of us, you mean?” Deacon countered.

She hesitated. “You know I don’t think of you that way. Besides, not everyone who went through Montauk was or is a killer. Some of the men have even gone back to their normal lives.”

“Yeah,” Deacon said. “And some of them are in psychiatric wards. Some of them are living on the streets.” And some of them had continued to kill.

“You said there were two names,” Camille prompted.

“The other is Sam Jessop. I haven’t met him yet, but from everything I’ve learned, he matches the profile. He was in the army, and he comes from a military family.”

“Okay. I’ll check them out and get back to you. Anything else?”

“There’s an abandoned army base not far from here. See what you can dig up about it.”

He heard her catch her breath. “You don’t think it was part of Montauk, do you?”

“We know they expanded the operation,” Deacon said. “And we’ve never discovered the other locations. It’s worth checking out.”

“That should keep me busy for a day or two,” Camille said. “In the meantime, keep in touch, okay? Grandfather worries about you. So do I,” she added reluctantly.

Deacon’s features tightened. “I wish you wouldn’t. I don’t deserve it.”

Camille sighed. “You’re never going to get past it, are you?”

A muscle began to pulse in Deacon’s jaw. “Get past who I am? What I did?”

“You were following orders,” Camille said. “You were programmed to—”

“Kill people.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Face it, Camille. Just because I can’t remember doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I was an assassin. You don’t move on from something like that. There’s no redemption for what I did.”

“There might be,” she said softly. “If you could somehow find it in your heart to forgive yourself.”

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