Survive the Night (Lost, Inc.) Page 5

  “What’s wrong?” Madison asked.

  Streaks of fear shot through Della. “Someone’s flattened everyone’s tires.”

  “Oh, no,” Madison yelled out. “Be careful, Paul. Mrs. Renault, call the police.”

  Della looked over. Mrs. Renault was already punching buttons on her phone.

  “It’s probably just vandals. The festival brought out the locals and the thugs, but with everything going on...” Della shrugged.

  “It’s dangerous to be dismissive,” Mrs. Renault finished and sniffed. “Especially after the Utah incident last year. Maggie and Paul were nearly killed.”

  Did everyone know what happened last year except her? “How?”

  Madison answered. “Gary Crawford bombed Maggie’s car. He flattened her tires, too, but she didn’t notice that until after the fact. If she hadn’t started her car with her remote, she’d have been in it and killed instantly.”

  Paul! Oh, no. Della couldn’t lose him, too. He was thinking about Dawson. But with his skills, Crawford was the greater threat—and Paul knew it. The truth dawned. He was protecting her. “Paul, wait!” She ran across the lot toward him. “Wait!”

  She stopped beside him. “Calm down and don’t touch anything,” he said. “The ground is clear of trip wires. If there’s a device, it’s on the vehicle.”

  Della dragged expertise from memory and shined light into the car. “Nothing visible.” She glanced over at him. “When this is over, I’m going to chew you out. You suspected Crawford the minute I said the tires were flat.”

  “Not now, Della.” Paul dropped down onto his stomach on the asphalt and reached back for her phone. “I need light.”

  She passed it to him. He swept the undercarriage with the beam and suddenly stopped. “There it is.”

  Her mouth went dust dry. “C-4?”

  “Silver salutes rigged to ignite the gas tank.”

  Simple and common—anyone could get fireworks—but deadly. “What did he use for an ignition device?”

  Paul flicked his wrist, scanning the vehicle’s belly with the beam of light. “Wired to the ignition—and as backup, a pipe bomb.”

  Pipe bomb. Like Dawson. “But no remote trigger?”

  “No.”

  Della shouted back to Mrs. Renault, “We need a bomb squad.”

  “Stand down,” Madison yelled back. “Right now—both of you.”

  They were safe. With nothing to ignite it, the bomb was dormant. Della backed up anyway, and Paul stood, then swiped at the grit clinging to his tux.

  A straggler group of festivalgoers made their way down the side street. “Jimmy,” Della called out. “Get them out of here. Keep that street clear.”

  “You got it, Miss Jackson.” He took off running.

  “I’ll get the alleyway.” Grant headed in the opposite direction.

  Della wiped at the road grime clinging to Paul’s shoulder. His tux was as wrecked as her nerves. “Don’t do that to me again.”

  Paul pressed a fingertip to her lips. “Don’t tell me not to do what I can to keep you safe. What kind of man would I be?”

  “One who tells me things so I can help. One who knows two heads are better than one, and just maybe together they can keep us alive.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “Yes.” Of course she was angry. Her emotions were in riot. Who wouldn’t be angry? “Don’t be so cavalier with your life.”

  “Careful, or I might just think you care about me.”

  Her fingers curled into his lapel, bunching the fabric. “I do care about you.”

  “I mean...never mind.” He brushed his face to her cheek. “I care, too.”

  “Fine way of showing it.” She hugged him hard, rested a cheek to his shoulder for a long second, then forced herself to back away when all she wanted to do was hold him closer to keep reassuring herself that he was safe.

  “Maybe you should stay mad at me. Other than dancing, it’s about the only way I can get you into my arms.”

  “Not funny. You scared me.”

  “Sorry.” He gave her a gentle squeeze. “But your hugs are pretty nice, Miss Jackson.” She reared back and he gave her that lazy smile.

  Who could stay mad with that smile aimed at them? Vexed, she rolled her eyes. “It’s a good thing I’m not dating you or I’d really be ticked right now.” Who was she kidding? She cared, he cared, they cared. The bond between them went far beyond dating. But the moment she admitted it, he’d run. He always ran. Not that she wanted to admit it. She didn’t dare risk more than friendship. There was also his faith to consider, and it was central in his life. It was no longer a part of hers, and that could create nothing but obstacles. But all of that aside, she would never fall into the love trap again—she didn’t dare. So why did knowing there were a fistful of obstacles that would doom a more-than-friends relationship between them squeeze her heart and make her want to weep?

  Paul swiped at his chin. “God is full of tender mercies.”

  * * *

  The fire department arrived first. Two police cars pulled in just after the small truck, and a van that housed the base’s bomb squad stopped abruptly right beside it. Three men poured out. None of them were Beech or those who’d been at the cottage with him.

  Paul succinctly briefed the team leader on the device and rigging, ending with “We need photos.”

  “Sure thing, Paul.”

  He walked over and joined Della and Doc. “Do you know him?” Della asked.

  Paul nodded. “From Vet Net.”

  So this squad was civilian forces. “Ah.” Della pivoted.

  Time crept. Stilled. Then crept again. Finally the bomb squad finished and left. Soon thereafter, Jack Sampson, the mechanic Mrs. Renault had called, returned with repaired tires. He’d grabbed coffee at Annie’s Café and recruited help. Now Jimmy and Paul worked with him to get the tires back on all the cars.

  They finished at the break of dawn, and the police finally cleared them to leave.

  Jimmy joined them. “Cars are ready to roll. I think I’ll hang here. Hardly worth the drive home before we’re due back.”

  “It’s Sunday, Jimmy,” Paul said. “Go home, sleep and we’ll meet here at three.”

  He looked at Paul. “Want me to hole up here with Della while you hit the early service at church?”

  Della hadn’t been to church since Danny’s death, and Paul never missed a Sunday. Everybody knew it. “I’m fine on my own,” she said. “Both of you go.”

  Mrs. Renault moved toward her car. “My apologies to Pastor. I’m going home.”

  Della watched her go. Mrs. Renault was tired, of course—dawn had come and gone—but she still carried herself as if she’d just stepped out of a magazine or off a runway. She was one of those women who would be lithe and elegant at ninety.

  “The bomb squad took my SUV for tests. We’re stranded.” Paul turned to Jimmy. “Can you give us a lift to Della’s?”

  “Sure thing.”

  They piled into Jimmy’s truck.

  When they arrived just after seven, Della and Paul got out of his truck and Paul leaned close to the window. “Thanks, Jimmy.” He tapped the truck frame. “Wait to return to the office. You need rest. Best get it at the church.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Della headed up the sidewalk. “I want to grab some clothes and things.” Gracie waved from Miss Addie’s front porch. Della waved back.

  Paul did, too, and smiled. “Expect a call from Miss Addie.”

  “Definitely.” Gracie would report that they were just getting home from the festival, still dressed in their formals, though they weren’t fit for anything beyond the trash bin now, and Miss Addie would be calling to see what had happened. “Word will be all over the bay by the time church is out.”

  “With the Sampson clan doing the repairs, it’s out already—about the tires and the bomb.”

  “True.” Della unlocked the cottage’s front door and started to enter but couldn’t lift her foot
. It was as if it rooted in the porch floor. She tried again, and it still wouldn’t move.

  “You okay?”

  He’s been in my home. Her stomach knotted.

  “Della?”

  Snap out of it! “I’m fine.” He’s not here now. Move. Just move. She couldn’t do it.

  Paul stepped to her side. A gray smudge discolored his jacket, and his tie dangled from his pocket. “When a woman says fine, she’s anything but.”

  Too perceptive. Della looked over at him. “Sometimes I wish you were a little less attuned to how women think.” Standing close, she frowned at him, their breaths mingling. “What do you want from me, Paul? Tell me.”

  His expression went flat. “You want me to answer that right now?”

  “Yes, I do.” She needed to know.

  He studied her face, the depths of her eyes, and the expression in his burned sincere. “Today, I just want you to be safe.”

  Evasive. Uncommon for the straight-talking Paul Mason. “What about tomorrow? Five years from now?” She braced a shoulder against the door frame. “Will we still be friends five years from now?”

  “We’ll always be friends.” The tension in his expression eased. “You can’t trudge through all we’ve been through together and just walk away like nothing happened.”

  That was the opening she sought. The one that had worried her from the moment she realized the truth about them. It’d eaten at her on the ride home, and it wasn’t going to let go. Knowing the stalker had been inside her cottage had her hesitant to enter. But Paul had entered her heart, and that terrified her far more. “I’ll be in your way. If you’re tied up with me all the time, how are you ever going to find a wife and have a family?” He wanted that more than anything and had said so many times.

  A shadow slid over his face. “Do you not want to be friends anymore?”

  “No! Of course, I do.”

  Relief washed over his face, and the skin around his eyes crinkled. “Good, because I’m not giving you up.” He swept his jaw. “Yet we do have a dilemma.” He glanced up at the porch ceiling for a second, then back at her. “I guess if being tied up with you hinders my wife-and-family prospects, then you’ll have to do it.”

  “Do what?” He couldn’t be saying what she thought he was saying. That’d be crazy.

  “You’ll have to marry me and mother my children.” He sounded calm and reasonable, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

  Her knees nearly collapsed. Marry him? He was joking. He had to be joking. But that twinkle in his eyes made her uncertain. What did he really mean? “Did you hit your head on the asphalt or something?” Serious or kidding, this was an insane solution for two people who were decidedly not dating. Not to mention his running from women who were interested in him, which he did do consistently.

  “No, I didn’t hit my head.” He shrugged. “You worried you’d be in my way and now you don’t have to worry anymore. A solution’s waiting anytime I want to snag it.”

  Not worry? He had to be joking...didn’t he? Of course he did...but...

  “Don’t look at me like I’ve lost my mind, Della. You’re not in the way of anything on any front and so long as we keep you safe, I’m content.” Doubt clouded his eyes. “How about you? Are you content?”

  She had been content—until he mentioned the M word. Reeling. That’s what she was. Reeling and confused and not sure of anything except the idea that he wanted her in his life. But one day... Marriage? Her? The idea hung over her head like a threat.

  Paul smiled. “You look like you’ve seen a rattlesnake. I think I’d be offended—some actually consider me a pretty good catch—except, I know why you’ve got that look. Ease up, okay? We’ve got enough issues to resolve without adding my future to them.” The smile faded. “We’re good. I mean, I’m good. Aren’t you good?”

  Too good to be true—because they were too good to be true. He was a great catch, and the woman lucky enough to spend the rest of her life with him would be getting a treasure. But the two of them together? Something flared in her chest. It left her curious, enticed and full of fear. He needed—and deserved—a woman who would love him with all her heart. After losing Jeff and Danny, her own was shattered. “I’m good. But just so we’re clear, I couldn’t step in and marry you—or anyone else—Paul.” He said he was just reassuring her, but he sounded serious, so she needed to be clear. She owed him clarity and honesty and so much more.

  “I understand, Della. Problem solved and we can forget it. Who knows? Maybe the right woman will come along. But if not, maybe one day you’ll want to marry me.”

  Her throat went tight. “You deserve far better than me.”

  He brushed a stray lock of hair back from her face, the look in his eyes tender. “Let’s just forget about this. If we become a problem, I’ll let you know.”

  She opened her mouth to object, but what did she say to that? Could she forget about it? Not replay the prospect in her mind, not allow little visions of that future to dance around in her head. Even as she rebelled, they drew her. It was going to take work. Maybe a lot of work. Maybe even more work than she ever could have imagined. “Good idea,” she compromised, staying honest. “It was a pretty unexpected solution.”

  “Was it really?” Another smile that shook her to the tips of her toes.

  What did that mean? Kidding again? Serious? Either way, the idea should have her breaking out in hives, and she might later. But right now all she could think about was having him at her side every day for the rest of her life. Oh, it’d be so easy to want that. So easy...and so wrong. If he walked out on her, she’d lose her heart and her best friend. He was all she had; there was no one else. Not anymore. “I meant it was a good idea to just forget it for now.”

  “Absolutely.” He straightened away from the door frame, signaling the conversation was over.

  Let go of it and focus, Della. She uncrossed her arms but still hesitated at the door. “You said all that to sidetrack me. So I’d forget for a minute someone wants me dead and he’s been in my house.”

  “I didn’t. You initiated the subject, not me.” Paul softened his gaze. “But I’d rather see shock on your face about us than fear of him. I can’t stand to see you afraid.”

  She was afraid, and she wanted to be annoyed but she couldn’t. She took in a deep breath. The monster had been in her home and touched her things. He’d violated her and her sanctuary. “A home is supposed to be a safe harbor. He had no right.”

  “No, he didn’t.” Paul curled his arms around her, pulled her close. “You will feel safe again. I promise. We’ll get beyond this.”

  “Will we get beyond it?” She looked up at him, her arms circling his waist. “Every time I think I can begin again and make myself some kind of life, something else happens. When will it stop, Paul? When will I ever get beyond it? Will you ever get beyond Crawford? And what about your sister? Will Maggie be running until that monster is caught or dead?”

  “One day at a time.”

  “It’s too much. Sometimes a day is just too much.”

  He stroked her face. “Then an hour. A minute. Whatever it takes.”

  Paul was right. This wallowing in despair wasn’t a solution. “It is what it is.”

  He nodded, brushed his lips to her forehead.

  Too tender. “I’m starting to wonder if anyone ever really gets past anything.”

  He didn’t get it. The events that had shaped her life weren’t going to change. How could she change? Broken was broken, and some broken things just can’t be fixed. “You know, it’s probably impossible.”

  “I’ll tell you a secret.” He whispered close to her ear, “With God all things are possible.”

  Once she, too, had believed that. Then Danny was murdered and that ended that. She pulled away and walked inside. Just inside the door, she looked around.

  “Everything look okay?”

  “So far.”

  * * *

  Paul watched Della closely, hoping
he hadn’t overplayed his hand. Looking at the living room, he had serious doubts. Still empty. Beige walls. White sheers at the window and not a stick of furniture in the entire room except the lone rocking chair. He frowned. “You’ve been here three years. When are you going to furnish the place?”

  “Whenever.” She walked through the hallway and up the stairs, heading to her bedroom.

  Long minutes passed. Upstairs, she was silent. He walked to the bottom of the stairs and shouted up, “You all right, Della?”

  “Fine.”

  “Another fine.” Grumbling, he went to the kitchen. It was as bare and empty as the rest of the cottage. No appliances on the counters. No canisters or plants. Nothing personal marring the glossy granite surfaces except a misshapen stack of envelopes that littered the far edge of the center island—her mail. All unopened. He glanced up to the pots hanging on the overhead rack. Their bottoms gleamed, still bright and shiny and unused. No surprise there; Della didn’t cook. But even the microwave looked untouched. He popped open the fridge door.

  A dozen Chinese food cartons, two bottles of water and lots of empty space.

  “Della, what are you doing?” he asked in a whisper. “When are you going to forgive yourself for being alive and actually live?”

  His heart squeezed, pinched tight. Help me help her.

  Fast footfalls sounded from the stairs. He closed the fridge as she hit the bottom landing. She’d changed into jeans and a white blouse and carried a black weekender case. “I need new locks.” She stood board-stiff and a wild look flooded her eyes. “He’s been back.”

  Surprise shot up Paul’s neck, tingled in the roof of his mouth. “He’s been back?”

  “Things are missing. Personal...clothing things.” Her face burned red.

  “Show me.”

  Paul followed her up the stairs and into her bedroom. Bed, nightstand and lamp and dresser. No toss pillows, no bedspread, just crisp white sheets with hospital corners and not a crease. No personal items sat atop the dresser. No bottles of perfume or cosmetics or other stuff women used. Bare glossy tops, freshly polished.

  She opened the top dresser drawer. It was empty. The one next to it. Also empty.