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A Message for Abby
Janice Kay Johnson
PATTON'S DAUGHTERSThe people of Elk Springs, Oregon, thought Ed Patton was a good man, a good cop, a good father. But his daughters know the truth….Abby's the third Patton sister. The baby. The one everyone said was privileged, spoiled. But a childhood with a harsh unapproachable father and only vague memories of a mother wasn't easy. Even if she did work hard to make it look that way.Now Abby's determined to live up to her image and have fun. Until she meets Detective Ben Shea, a man who's plenty serious–about his job, his life and suddenly her.Maybe, just maybe, it would pay to get serious.
“I’ll be in touch, Ben.” (#u5acf7fa0-1be3-53c6-93fa-518fa3354c2b)Letter to Reader (#uf2f2514f-088f-5802-9648-aab19debb036)Title Page (#u98a9819b-b2c8-5979-bd59-069c6491205a)CHAPTER ONE (#uc0cdce3a-d6fe-56ab-b053-ee3972d1613c)CHAPTER TWO (#u559a48af-ee24-5256-84b7-e1c3cdc75aba)CHAPTER THREE (#udc552a73-444f-53ac-b304-75cf0e295609)CHAPTER FOUR (#u75e84ebd-53a9-56d6-9a7b-b94380444f92)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“I’ll be in touch, Ben.”
He nodded and handed Abby his card. “You do that,” he said, then slammed the car door.
She watched him saunter away, strides long and easy, his broad shoulders formidable, his butt—For Pete’s sake, they were working together, not getting involved.
You can admire, a little voice in her head whispered.
“No,” Abby told herself, “I can’t”
Dating was fun. Right up there with the perfect ski run, and no more serious. Ben Shea didn’t smile. He didn’t flirt, and he took her seriously. All of which made him a dangerous man. Abby didn’t do dangerous men. After years as a firefighter, she knew what it meant to get burned.
Anyway, thanks to the shining example of manhood set by Daddy dear, revered police chief, Abby had no desire to bring home a man for good Sometimes her two brothers-in-law gave her pause, but not for long.
Abby put her car in gear and pulled out onto me road, hoping the big dark cop would recede in her thoughts as surely as he did in the rearview mirror.
Dear Reader,
Two of the most interesting characters I’ve ever written about happen to be in the PATTON’S DAUGHTERS trilogy: Abby Patton and Jack Murray. Both challenged me in unanticipated ways. They’re more complex, more flawed, less obviously “hero” or “heroine” material than usual. Abby, I came to realize as I wrote, had to be deeply troubled. How could she not be, given her abusive father and desertion by her mother and older sister, her mother-surrogate? In defense she had learned not to care, and to manipulate men because she felt that they must all, on some level, be like her father. I found that I cared about her. I wanted to heal her, but in a believable way.
Jack, of course, wasn’t the answer. His entire life has been shaped by one painful, humiliating moment when he wasn’t strong enough to stand up for the girl he loved. One of these days, Jack Murray must be a hero, because that’s the only way he can redeem himself.
As you’re reading A Message for Abby, I’m writing about Jack and finding that I love the challenge of writing about people who aren’t any simpler in their motivations and reactions than you or I are. I’m crossing my fingers that some of you choose to let me know what you think about PATTON’S DAUGHTERS and especially about the brittle, intelligent woman in A Message for Abby.
Thanks for reading my stories. (I invite you to visit my website at http://www.superauthors.com/ (http://www.superauthors.com/))
Janice Kay Johnson
A Message for Abby
Janice Kay Johnson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
HER DEAD DADDY’S PICKUP sitting beside the road, smoldering from an arson fire.
That was Abby Patton’s first thought on seeing the truck—that it was Daddy’s—and now she couldn’t get rid of the willies.
The pickup wasn’t really his, of course; it couldn’t be. Ed Patton had been dead for three years, his Chevy sold only months after he went in the ground. This one was just the same color, the same vintage.
Coincidence, is all.
Abby prowled around the pickup. For sure these plates weren’t the ones that had been on Daddy’s truck—but then, she’d bet ten to one this pair had been stolen from another vehicle anyway. Shiny, tabs new, they didn’t go with the red dust coating the dented, fading green paint of the pickup.
Firefighters had smashed the passenger side window and pumped foam on the seat, just to be sure a blaze didn’t leap to life later. Wearing their gear and sweating in the hundred-degree heat, they had made a few choice remarks about the dumb ass who’d gone to all the trouble to rip the stuffing out of the seat, soak it with gasoline and set it on fire, only to roll up the windows and lock the doors.
“Doesn’t every schoolkid know fire needs oxygen?” one of them had asked, shaking his head. A minute later they’d tooted a fare-thee-well and were gone.
Now, left beside the road with nobody but jackrabbits and the wind to keep her company, Abby said aloud, “And why bother?” Why not junk the truck if it wouldn’t run, sell it on a lot if it would?
Because setting fires was fun? Because the pickup was stolen and some teenage perp thought he could get rid of fingerprints this way? Or because the arsonist needed to destroy the vehicle for some other reason? There sure wasn’t anything in the rusting bed of the pickup.
Before taking a closer look, Abby got on the radio to run the plates. While she waited, she leaned against her car door and looked around.
Barton Road was paved, even had a yellow stripe down the middle, but at the bottom of the gravel banks to each side, gray desert scrub stretched away, bordered by ancient barbed wire attached to rotting fence posts. Cattle must have grazed out here once upon a time, or why bother fencing, but this now looked like the pronghorn country it had once been.
She guessed she was five miles outside the Elk Springs city limits, east of town where the land got bleak and flat mighty quick. Just a few miles west, ranches started studding the landscape, including her brother-in-law’s, the Triple B. But here no houses were visible, and only three vehicles had gone by in the past twenty minutes. Plus, the arsonist could have seen anyone coming far enough away to disappear in a cloud of dust before the passerby arrived.
Some teenage boys out here target shooting had used a cell phone to report the fire. Interesting they’d seen flames. Either the fire setter had just left, or they’d lit this baby themselves.
A voice crackled from the receiver. “Marshal Patton, the plates belong to a blue 1997 Chevrolet Lumina, registered to—”
“Whoa,” Abby interrupted. She repeated the plate number. “You’re sure about the vehicle?”
“Yes, ma’am. The registered owner is Shirley Barnard, address 22301 Butte Road, Elk Springs.”
Shock silenced Abby long enough for the dispatcher to say, “Do you need a repeat?”
“No! I...” She shook her head. “No. Thank you.”
The prickle of some kind of primitive fear crept up her spine.
A fire set in a pickup that could have been Daddy’s decorated with stolen plates belonging to her sister Renee’s mother-in-law. And one of Daddy’s daughters was an arson investigator.
Coincidence, Abby tried to tell herself again, but disquiet stirred the hair at her nape. She suddenly felt as if somebody was watching her.
She gazed around one more time, but the sagebrush wasn’t dense enough to hide a man and the road stretched bare and shimmery in the noonday sun.
Abby shivered despite the heat. Pulling on latex gloves, she walked back to the pickup. Reaching through the broken window, she gingerly lifted the latch and shouldered open the door.
The interior was filthy and dripping with gasoline and retardant. The upholstery appeared to have been slit with a knife and then ripped open; most of the fabric was on the floor. Blackened from the fire, stuffing cascaded after the seat covering, exposing springs.
The smell was bad. Really bad. Instinctively Abby began breathing through her mouth. Gasoline, charred plastic and fabric and some sharp overtone that made her think of burning urine. What was that stench?
Oh, no.
She lifted the guts of the upholstery and turned it. Burned bits crumbled. She didn’t notice, was too absorbed in the dark stain on the woven material. When she let it go, the latex fingers of her gloves were pink.
Blood, and plenty of it. Could have been dried before the gasoline and then the foam used to put out the fire had liquefied it again.
Abby stepped back, scanning the road and the dry landscape again, reassured by the emptiness and by the weight of the revolver at her hip.
She proceeded methodically then, examining every inch of the cab. Glove compartment was empty but for dirt, an old paperclip, a 1985 penny. More of the same—and nothing else—under the seats; the floors looked as if they hadn’t been vacuumed since the year the penny had been minted. No stickers on the door or windshield showing when oil changes or tune-ups had been done. She bagged and tagged what little she found, in case it became evidence in a homicide, but she was betting whoever had set the fire hadn’t touched any of this. He’d been damned sure nothing incriminating was left, however.
She looked beneath the hood, even scooted on her back under the chassis just to check for the unexpected.
Then she returned to her car and called the Butte County Sheriffs Department, Investigations Unit. Too bad Meg was on maternity leave, Abby thought as she waited to be connected. Married two years now, Meg and Scott had decided to give Will and little Emily a brother or sister. Not that Will would care—he’d be off to college soon.
Abby’s call was eventually relayed to Detective Ben Shea. Abby knew her sister had worked with Shea and thought highly of him.
“Patton?” he said in a deep, easy voice. “This Abby?”
“Yes.” She watched in the rearview mirror as a dust cloud materialized into a camper coming down the road toward her. “Meg’s told you I’m with the arson investigation squad, right?” If two investigators could be called a ‘squad’—Butte County wasn’t New York City yet, thank God. They were kept busy enough, but in these parts most arson fires could be nailed on teenagers or business owners.
“Sure. What’s up?”
The camper passed, several people—kids among them—craning their necks to see why an official vehicle sat beside the road. She relaxed again. “I’m on Barton Road, approximately five miles east of the city limits. I have a pickup truck with stolen plates. The seat was ripped up, soaked with gasoline and set on fire. The perp forgot to roll down the windows, so the fire didn’t go far. Appears the seat is soaked with blood. I thought you folks might be interested.”
“Yes, indeedy,” he said. “Do you mind sitting tight? If you want, I’ll call for a tow, but I’d like to see the vehicle before we take it into the yard. Just in case,” he echoed her earlier thought, “this amounts to anything.”
“No problem,” she assured him. “I’ll wander around here a little, see if maybe he got careless and tossed a cigarette butt or something.”
While she waited she wondered why she hadn’t told him the pickup was a ringer for her father’s, or that the plates belonged to Renee’s mother-in-law. That part she’d have to tell him, of course, but would he think she was shying at shadows if she admitted to wondering that there might be some message for her in this whole business?
Maybe. She’d see what she thought after meeting him. Despite the fact that he worked off and on with Meg, somehow Abby never had come face-to-face with Shea. She supposed it was natural that he and Meg hadn’t socialized. From what her sister had said, he was closer to Abby’s age than Meg’s. And unmarried without children. Outside of work, they probably didn’t have much in common.
She walked a hundred yards up the road, then back on the other side, doing the same thing going west. The dry gravel and dirt didn’t hold tracks well. She’d parked on the opposite side of the road from the pickup, but the fire truck had pulled in ahead of it and could have obliterated other tracks.
Abby slid down the bank and climbed over the fence, snagging her trouser leg on the barbed wire and swearing. She wanted to go back up to the road and sit in her air-conditioned car. She could feel wet patches under her arms, trickles of sweat making their way down her spine to her panties. She could hardly wait to plunge into the YMCA pool after work and swim her laps.
Scouring the ground for footprints or anything that didn’t belong, she searched in steadily widening semicircles from the pickup. Nothing but reddish dirt, rabbit holes, largish round droppings—maybe deer?—and gray-green sagebrush.
One other car passed, slowing briefly. She was too far away to see faces. The next vehicle, a Bronco with the sheriff’s department emblem on the door, pulled to a stop on the shoulder behind her car. Abby trudged back, stepped carefully over the barbed wire and scrambled up the bank, feet slipping in the loose gravel until she had to put her hands down. Sweat fogged her vision as she topped the bank, shoved sticky hair off her forehead, and straightened to face Detective Ben Shea.
She blinked and stared in horror. She was going to kill Meg. Why hadn’t she thought of some excuse to introduce him to her younger, single sister? At the very least, how could she have failed to mention, if only in passing, that Detective Shea was a spectacular man? Mr. January. No, Mr. Calendar Cover himself. Six-two or three, straight dark hair, cool gray eyes and a strong, impassive face.
And she was both sweaty and filthy. Her hair must be lank, her mascara dripping down her cheeks; she could taste grit.
Oh, yeah. Meg was going to pay.
If he’d smirked, Abby would have killed him, too.
His gaze flicked over her in a lightning-quick assessment, but his mouth formed no smile. “Marshal Patton?”
“That’s right.” Her voice sounded gritty. She cleared her throat. “Detective Shea?”
“Ben.” He held out a hand, which she took; his enveloped hers.
Abby would have given anything to be...well, herself. Made up, hair smooth, smile saucy. To be together. She liked his big warm hand, his strong clasp. She wanted to see interest spark in those cool eyes.
“Abby,” she said with a wry smile.
He dropped her hand with unflattering speed. “Let’s take a look,” he said, and he wasn’t talking about her. Unfortunately.
She trailed behind as he strolled to the pickup, pulled on a latex glove and fingered the upholstery fabric as she’d done.
“Run the plates?” he asked without looking over his shoulder.
“Yes. Do you know my sister, Renee?”
That earned her a startled glance. “Yeah.”
“These plates should be on her mother-in-law’s car. I know Shirley is over in Portland visiting her daughter and grandson. Which means her car is most likely garaged at the Triple B.”
Shea swore softly and moved away from the pickup. “Funny coincidence. I mean, you being the one finding out.”
“There are only two arson investigators in Elk Springs.” Facts were facts. Today, she didn’t like this one. It fed that uneasy feeling this pickup had been waiting for her. “Even if you didn’t know our schedules, chances would be fifty-fifty I’d be the one to check out this fire. Actually, John is always off on Mondays.”
Ben Shea’s gray eyes narrowed for a moment. “You don’t think it is coincidence.”
“No.” Okay, there it was, right out in the open. “The thing is, this pickup is the exact model and color of my father’s. We sold it after he died three years ago.”
The detective muttered an obscenity. “Vehicle ID number?”
“Haven’t checked yet.”
He turned and stared at the pickup. “Goddamn.”
“You’re supposed to tell me I’m being paranoid. That coincidences happen.”
“Coincidences happen,” Shea said automatically. He didn’t have to add that he didn’t mean it. “Better make sure, first of all, that Renee’s mother-in-law made it to Portland.”
“Oh, my God,” Abby said, already backing away. Fear had leaped into her throat, nearly gagging her. She liked Shirley Barnard. “I didn’t think of that. I should have. All that blood...”
At her car, she grabbed her cell phone rather than her radio.
“Triple B.” A male voice picked up.
“Daniel Barnard,” Abby said peremptorily.
“He’s riding, I think. No.” She heard laughter in the background. “You’re in luck. Who’s calling?”
She told him; a moment later she was talking to her brother-in-law with the blue eyes to-die-for.
Poor choice of words, Abby thought with a lurch.
“Daniel, we just found a pickup with stolen plates. They belong on Shirley’s Lumina.”
“What the hell?”
“It gets worse,” she warned. “The seat of the pickup is drenched in blood.” Into the silence, she asked quietly, “Daniel, have you talked to your mother? You’re sure she got to Portland okay?”
