Debby Giusti - The General's Secretary

“I’m not planning to leave town.”

Dawson stood and pulled two business cards from his pocket. He gave one to Pritchard. “The CID office phone number and my personal cell are under my name.”

Retrieving the pen from his pocket, Dawson jotted down an additional number on the back of the card he handed Lillie. “I live in the bachelor officers’ quarters on post. The handwritten digits are for the direct line to my apartment at the BOQ.”

A uniformed cop approached Pritchard. “We found some numbers scratched on a scrap of paper tucked in the victim’s jacket.”

Pressure pushed on Dawson’s chest as Pritchard read from the paper. “Nine-seven-one-four.”

Lillie stared at Dawson’s business card and silently mouthed the last four digits of his BOQ phone number. Nine-seven-one-four. The same numbers found in Granger’s jacket.

She glanced up at Dawson. Her forehead furrowed.

Oblivious to her questioning gaze, Pritchard pulled out his cell. “Might be a portion of a phone number. I’ll add the local prefix and see what we get.”

Pritchard tapped in the digits and then shook his head as he disconnected. “The number’s not in service.”

Dawson needed to leave the little house in the woods before the Freemont cop tried the unique prefix for Fort Rickman phone lines.

He turned to Lillie, who continued to stare at him. “Don’t hesitate to call me, ma’am, if you think of anything else that might have bearing on this case.”

One of her finely arched brows rose ever so slightly. “Shall I use your cell phone or your BOQ number?”

The muscle in Dawson’s neck twitched. “My cell.”

Lillie knew he was withholding information from Pritchard. Just as she was.

Maybe they could trade secrets.

TWO

The CID agent climbed into his car as Pritchard and his men prepared to leave the area. Instead of returning to Fort Rickman, Dawson turned right out of the driveway and sped along the rain-washed road that headed north toward the interstate. Rounding a bend, he passed under a train trestle and spied the lights from the Hi-Way Motel in the distance.

The triangle of red, green and blue neon pointed toward the one-story brick building that offered small rooms at a modest rate for those who couldn’t afford the larger chain motels closer to Freemont. Vacancy, the sign flashed, begging for business.

Pulling into the drive, Dawson cut his lights and circled to the rear of the complex. He parked under an oak tree away from the handful of cars in the back lot.

Grabbing a pair of latex gloves from his console, Dawson hustled toward the last room on the far end of the building, the room where his father had said he was staying when he called three days ago. Dawson slipped his hands into the gloves and tried the knob, relieved when it turned.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness. The bed was rumpled, pillows and comforter strewn over the nearby throw rug. Two dresser drawers hung open. An unzipped duffel bag sat on the floor next to a small desk and overturned lamp.

Either a scuffle had ensued or someone had ransacked the room. Maybe both.

Using his cell phone for light, Dawson checked the duffel, finding only underwear and socks. He opened the remaining dresser drawers. Empty except for a hardcover Bible. Standard toilet articles in the bathroom. Two shirts and a pair of jeans hung in the closet.

A car pulled to a stop outside. Footsteps approached on the walkway that edged the rooms. Dawson’s pulse kicked up a notch, realizing, too late, he had failed to flip the latch.

Rap, rap, rap.

He glanced at the bathroom that offered no place to hide. The closet hung open. Small, dark, confining. Exactly where he didn’t want to go.

A key scratched against the lock. The knob turned.

Sweat pooled around his neck. He didn’t have a choice and slipped into the closet’s confining darkness. His heart skittered in his chest. He left the door ajar and peered through the crack.

Someone stepped into the room.

Five-seven and slender with shoulder-length hair and big eyes that took in the room with one glance.

Lillie?

* * *

The last place Lillie wanted to be was Granger Ford’s motel room, but she had thought the key would unlock the door and lead to information about her mother’s death.

Three nights ago, Granger had phoned and asked her to meet him here. In hindsight and despite her concern about the museum project, she should have accepted his invitation.

He’d claimed to have answers, which she took to mean information about what had happened on that stormy night so long ago. Obviously, from the disarray, someone had searched the motel room, looking for the information that must have played into Granger’s death.

Lillie pulled in a deep breath to calm her runaway pulse. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she stepped toward the duffel bag. After rifling through the contents, she opened the dresser drawers. Her fingers rested briefly on the Gideon Bible. Lord, let me find the truth.

Granger claimed he had never known her mother and had had nothing to do with her death. Not that Lillie was sure she believed him. Easy enough to beg forgiveness after the fact.

“Go back to bed, child.”

Yet Granger’s voice wasn’t the one she heard in her dreams. Nor was his face the one that returned to haunt her with each passing storm.

Knowing it was only a matter of time before the Freemont police or the muscular CID agent from Fort Rickman found where Granger had been staying, she tugged on the closet door.

A man stood shadowed in the recesses.

Her heart exploded in her chest. She screamed.

Turning to flee, her foot caught on the leg of the bed. She lost her balance.

“Lillie.”

Hands reached for her, easing the fall. He took the brunt of the blow as they both crashed to the floor.

She kicked, heard him groan and kicked again.

He pinned her down, the weight of his legs impeding her movement. “I won’t hurt you.”

She screamed again.

He covered her mouth with his hand. His breath warmed her cheek.

“Lillie, stop.” His voice was low, insistent.

She bit his hand.

“Augh,” he groaned. “Listen.”

Sirens sounded in the distance.

“The police are coming. You don’t want them to find you here.”

Reason tangled through her fear as she recognized Dawson’s voice.

“I’m going to let you go. Leave the room. Take the back road out of the motel. Meet me at the truck stop one exit north on the highway. We need to talk.” His hand eased up ever so slightly. “Do you understand?”

She nodded.

He drew away from her and stood.

Scampering to her feet, Lillie raced for the door and threw it open. Light filtered into the darkness. She turned, seeing the special agent bend down and pick up something from the rug.

Dawson Timmons was a fool to think she would meet him anywhere except at military police headquarters on post.

“You dropped something.” The key dangled from his hand.

The sirens screamed in the distance. Not much time to get away.

“Meet me at the truck stop,” he said again. “We can share information.”

The police would never understand how she had known about the motel room and why she had been there with the CID agent. Leaving the parking lot, she headed out the back way.

On the phone, Granger had said he’d been framed. At the time, she hadn’t wanted his excuses to buy her sympathy. Now she wasn’t sure about anything or anyone, especially the special agent who seemed to be one step ahead of her.

General Cameron had spoken highly of the Criminal Investigation Division on post. A number of big cases had been solved over the past few years because of their hard work. That’s why she had felt comfortable sharing her story tonight with the special agent.