Leann Sweeney - Dead Giveaway

It was a living room, but very open, sparsely furnished, with wood floors. I moved closer to get a better look after I spotted Olive talking to a woman standing with the aid of a walker—one of those kind with a basket and wheels. The woman was tall and thin, with dishwater blond hair drawn back in a ponytail. She was looking down. I spied a wheelchair in a corner.

Olive was visiting a handicapped parishioner after all. Maybe I should wait until—

But then Olive walked away, out of my sight, and that's when the woman with the walker looked straight at the window.

I gasped. Not a quiet gasp, either.

Still blinking in disbelief, I heard a sound behind me—heard too late. Someone grabbed my wrist and twisted the gun from my hand. It fell with a thud near my right foot.

I felt steel against my temple.

"Very bad move coming here," the man whispered. I recognized the voice from the storage unit. "You say one word and you're dead."

I nodded my agreement, my thoughts leaving the woman I'd just recognized as I shifted into survival mode. I wasn't sure I'd be spared again, but this guy didn't want the women in the house to hear, so I at least had a few minutes left. If he was going to kill me, it wouldn't happen near the house.

This time he snapped regular cuffs on my wrists and said, "Where are your car keys?"

"In the ignition," I said.

"Perfect. Now move."

But he didn't shove or push, just laid a hand on my shoulder to steer me around the garden. When I stumbled once on the stones, he caught me before I fell. I looked at the man.

B.J.

He said, "Keep going," his hand resting on my back as we moved forward into the woods. We weren't going to my car as I expected.

His touch on my back reminded me of the caress when he'd left me in that storage unit, the way he stared at me in the church. His obvious attraction made me sick right now, but it had served me well to this point and I'd use it if I had to.

I thought about running—for about a tenth of a second. Unfortunately for me, he obviously knew this place. I didn't. Added to that, my heart was thumping and I was wearing bracelets. Escape would be about as easy as digging a ditch in the ocean.

I risked a glance back at the house after intentionally tripping to get that look.

B.J. said, "You're a klutz, just like her."

Her? Sara Rankin? The woman with the walker? The woman I'd recognized?

"Yeah, that's me. Klutzy kidnap victim," I said as he helped me up.

"Real funny," he mumbled.

Would Sara help me? Could she help me? Not a promising prospect.

Turned out, the road leading to the cabin looped around after it passed the house. A short trek through the woods on a well-worn path and we reached B.J.'s car parked on a curve. This was the car that had sped by after I came along behind the van. Oh, yeah. I'd been followed again. Jeez. I could probably screw up a two-car funeral.

Funeral. Don't think about that, Abby.

He'd chosen black for his newest Lexus—and it was brand-new, paper still on the floorboards and thin plastic covering the leather seats. After he'd cuffed me to the seat belt and activated the child safety locks, he took out his cell phone.

After a few seconds he said, "Olive? There's a car in your driveway. The keys are in the ignition. You need to put that car in the garage. Now."

A short pause, then he said, "Because Pastor Rankin would—"

Olive interrupted, speaking loudly—though I couldn't catch the words, just her frantic tone.

"Olive, shut up. Give her some pills or one of those shots. Anything. Then hide that car."

He didn't wait for a reply, just snapped the phone shut and started the engine.

B.J.'s gun was in his shoulder holster now, far from my very encumbered hands. He pressed his foot on the accelerator and we took off.

This had all happened so fast and I was still stunned to have seen Sara Rankin in that log cabin. I kept silent for a minute or two, thinking things through. I felt calmer then, as calm as a girl could get, handcuffed next to a murderer. Still, B.J. could have gotten rid of me and he hadn't. He needed me alive for some reason.

He made his next phone call when we reached the church parking lot. He'd pulled behind the main buildings near a row of garages. Not well lit. And deserted. He speed-dialed a number and said, "She went to the cabin. I nabbed her before she got inside. Get everyone out, janitors included, and call me back. Then I'll bring her in."

I heard another agitated voice. Female, too.

B.J. said, "If you don't do this, I'll splatter her blood all over your church. See how well you fix that problem, Noreen."

My gut tightened. So much for my belief he had some odd attraction to me and would spare my life again. I was no more than a tool. And if Noreen didn't cooperate...

But when I heard B.J. say, "Good thinking," I knew I was safe for a few more precious minutes.

I quietly released my breath.

He took the gun out, held it across his lap, but said nothing. Just stared straight ahead.

I had a little time, and knowing words were my only weapon, I said, "What's wrong with Sara?"

He didn't respond, just kept looking straight ahead.

"Her face, her mouth, the way they sag on one side. Did she have a stroke?" I asked.

Again nothing.

"Has she been in that house all these years? With no one but Olive?"

The rise and fall of his chest picked up speed, his lips tightened. He wanted me to be quiet. But he still needed me, so I could keep hammering at him. Keep picking away. He might make a mistake.

"This Olive, she was Verna Mae's friend, right? Did the Rankins use Olive to sign Verna Mae up for motherhood?"

"Shut up," he snapped. This time he looked at me, but then quickly turned away.

"What I don't understand is why the Rankins have been keeping their daughter a prisoner. She can hardly walk, but she's still young, she's—"

He pressed the gun barrel against my forehead. "Amanda, shut your trap!"

I swallowed hard. Amanda? And then I flashed back to my conversation with Kate, when we examined that grainy ATM photo. "You look just like her," Kate had said.

I closed my eyes, tried to remember all the names from Frank Simpson's notes—Amanda's ex-boyfriends who'd been supposedly cleared of her murder. Anyone whose name began with a B? Barry? No. Bob? No. An odd name. An old name. And then I just blurted it out. "Byron."

B.J. turned sharply, glared for a long, cold second.

"Amanda dump you, Byron? Is that why you killed her?"

"She got religion, thought she was better than me. You look like her, you know. Even act like her. Wonder how she'd feel today if she knew I worked for the pastor."

"Did she really deserve a bullet in the head?" I wanted to add. "Or do I?"

B.J.'s strange smile nearly made my fingernails sweat. "She wanted to be with God more than with me. So I helped her out."

The cell phone chirped, and we both flinched. A sound you hear every day and everywhere now made me want to throw up.

B.J., eyes on me, answered, saying, "You ready?" A short pause followed, then he said, "We're coming in."

If I didn't do something, I might be going out feet first. He came around to the passenger side, opened the door, and when he bent to free my hands, I headbutted him in the jaw.

He staggered, wiped at the blood dripping from his mouth.

Not knocked out. Not what I'd hoped for. Shit.

"Yeah. You're just like her." He finished uncuffing me, being far more careful, and pulled me out of the car.

Before I could blink, his gun grip came crashing down on my skull.

I must have been unconscious for only a minute, because the next thing I knew, I was being carried over B.J.'s shoulder like a sack of flour. We were walking through the church kitchen, and I smelled buttermilk biscuits. Would I ever eat another one? God, I hoped so. He took me into Pastor Rankin's office and tossed me into one of the chairs surrounding the glass coffee table. By then, my senses had cleared— and I was mad as hell.