John Miller - Smoke and Mirrors

“Nonsense. Some younger women appreciate the added value and benefits offered by a mature gentleman. Especially when he’s a Harvard-trained physician who isn’t going to live forever or leave his considerable estate, which includes an above-average coin collection, to his surviving son.”

“Where’s my shovel? It’s knee-deep in here,” Woody said.

Alexa smiled. “Most women do appreciate a mature gentleman,” she said. “It’s nice to meet a handsome man who is also a physician,” she went on. “Not even counting a coin collection.”

“General practitioner for forty-four years,” William said.

“Alexa is with the FBI. Winter is…”

“Been helping you find Sherry’s killer,” William said. “I know all about him, and he did a great job wrapping it up. Little of consequence, or without, escapes my network of ever-faithful patients. Speaking of which, I saw Cynthia yesterday afternoon at the office.”

“She came to see you for….?” Brad asked.

“That’s about six miles into none of your business, Bradley. Beautiful child, Cynthia. So, Agent Keen, before my son interrupted, you were about to tell me about your present marital prospects.”

“I didn’t have any before tonight,” she said, smiling.

“You were once married, I bet,” William said.

She shook her head. “Not yet, Will.”

“Well now, my dear, that has to be a situation of your own choosing.”

“Just haven’t found the right gentleman,” she said teasingly.

“I don’t suppose my son mentioned that I am an accomplished ballroom dancer.”

“Mostly he accomplishes flattening toes,” Woody said.

“Daddy,” Brad said, “Alexa’s young enough to be your daughter.”

“I often wish I’d had a daughter,” William said, frowning at his son.

Paulus Styer sat in the van in the parking lot of the Blue amp; White and watched Massey, Barnett, and the unidentified woman wrapped up in conversation. He could safely go in. Winter was the only one in the group who had ever seen or spoken to him and after the work he’d had done on his features, the disguise he wore, and the stolen accented voice, Winter couldn’t possibly recognize him. But Massey was remarkably intuitive, and it was smart not to give him anything until the time was right. While he would not recognize Styer, he might remember seeing him in the disguise later. He couldn’t afford to lose a vital identity at this point. And they would be meeting face-to-face before long.

Styer had become familiar with Dr. Barnett when he was setting up the game, along with the old coot, Woody, who was often in his company. Because William was the sheriff’s father, and might prove useful to the situation, Styer had spoken with them that morning at breakfast. In the guise of a visitor considering a move to the area, Styer asked the men question after question, even joining their table at the doctor’s invitation. Dr. Barnett had been friendly, his companion less so.

Tonight, he had not been able to hear their conversation, but it shouldn’t matter since they were following a trail of his design.

Styer looked across the highway at a Yukon that had parked in a lot facing the restaurant shortly after the trio arrived. The occupants hadn’t gotten out, and smoke trailing from the tailpipe was the only indication that it was inhabited. He wondered why anybody would be following Massey or the sheriff, unless it was someone from the casino. He considered the thought, that the woman with them might have a protective detail, then realized with a jolt that she matched the description he had of Alexa Keen, Massey’s FBI pal, an abduction specialist. So she was involved now, which meant they knew about Cynthia. Good luck, bitch.

He started the SUV and backed out slowly. He drove a hundred yards and parked in a hardware store’s lot, waiting to see where the Yukon went when the dinner party split up.

Cynthia was lying on the carpeted floor of A closet. Thanks to a noose around her neck that was tied behind her back to her feet, she would strangle if she moved. Straightening out was impossible, and even if she could, the pain in her stomach made her want to double up. Her pants were cold and damp from urine, and she needed a shot badly. She had no idea how long she could go without one. Nobody had ever told her that.

The man had been gone a very long time. Hours earlier, he’d given her an injection of only half the amount of insulin the needle held. She had begged for more, but the cruel asshole had told her that he couldn’t waste the little insulin she had in case “it” took longer than he thought it would, saying calmly, “Trust me, I won’t let you die. I need you alive.”

Cynthia sobbed quietly, trying to calm herself. She was sure that her mother would have people looking for her by now, and she prayed they would somehow be able to find her. One thing was certain: she was going to make sure Jack Beals paid dearly for this.

She desperately needed to pee again, so she let it go in the quiet darkness.

Alexa placed her bag on the bed in the guest bedroom located next to Winter’s. When she came downstairs, Ruger, who had been in the backyard when they arrived, ran to her and jumped up on her, trying to lick her face with a broad and dripping tongue.

Brad grabbed Ruger’s collar and pulled her back. “She and my father have a lot in common,” Brad said. “They are both enamored with the FBI. Stay down, Ruger.”

“She doesn’t care for me,” Winter said.

“Ruger doesn’t know you like I do,” Alexa said, kneeling to put her face on the dog’s level. “Pretty girl. Ruger, be nice to Winter. He is a friend to man, woman, and beast alike. With the exception of deer.”

Ruger looked at Winter as if she knew what Alexa had said, and her wide tongue bobbed.

“Get anyone a beer?” Brad asked.

“None for me,” Alexa said.

“Thanks anyway,” Winter said. “I need to get some rest.”

The ringing doorbell sent a barking Ruger bounding to the back door. Brad walked through the kitchen, leaving Winter and Alexa standing in the den. Winter heard a familiar voice and the door closing.

After thirty seconds, Leigh Gardner came in, followed by Brad and a joyful Ruger.

“Leigh has something she wants to tell us.”

“Brad, do you have any bourbon?”

“I didn’t know you drank,” Brad said.

“I could use a stiff drink if it’s all the same to you,” she said, collapsing in an armchair. “Just ice.”

“Have you heard from Cynthia?” Alexa asked before Winter could.

“Her father spoke to her an hour ago. She’s fine. She stayed overnight with a girlfriend she knows from LSU. I’m furious, but at least she’s all right. He told her how worried we all were and she called me silly. Jacob says she’s trying to keep from thinking about Sherry and she said she’s going to her grandmother’s to spend the night. Probably for advanced bitch lessons. Like she isn’t going to get one from me when she gets home. I’ve half a mind to go up there and drag her home.”

“At least she’s safe,” Alexa said.

Leigh nodded and smiled. “That’s some consolation. Do you have children?”

“No,” Alexa said. “I don’t.”

“Count your blessings,” Leigh said flatly.

Brad opened a cabinet and took out a bottle of Maker’s Mark, found a short glass, dropped two cubes of ice from the freezer in, and poured it half full. He crossed the room and handed it to Leigh.

Leigh drained half the glass before she said anything further.

“The main reason I’m here is because of the conversation I had with Jacob this evening. I find myself in need of advice from…I suppose all of you,” she said. She drained the glass and set it on a coaster on the coffee table.