Vickie York - 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.

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TO MY CRITIQUE GROUP

Joe Contris

Ethel Flannery

Darcea Schiesl

June Summerville

Gayla Goller

Thanks for all your piercing comments

Susan Kirkpatrick, attorney;

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

Carolyn Williamson, attorney

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

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.

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.