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Trent and Luke took a moment to consider his advice.
Luke put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “This is why he’s been my best friend since high school. He considers all the angles. Very observant. Better take her shopping. But to surprise her—you could put the empty box under the tree. Then tell her you’re taking her to the jeweler the next day.”
“Ah, good one,” Trent agreed. “So, Luke, what are you getting Sarah for Christmas?”
“I was thinking about some new drill bits,” Luke deadpanned.
“Right,” Scott said. “She’ll be thrilled.”
Luke broke into laughter. “Nah. I got her a sapphire bracelet. To match her eyes.” He smiled wistfully.
“Very romantic,” Scott replied.
Trent grabbed his box of shells. “So what are you giving Isabelle? Want to make that a double date to the jeweler’s?”
Scott’s mouth went dry. “Uh, we don’t exchange gifts.”
“You what?” Trent and Luke said in unison.
“Man, no wonder...” Luke didn’t finish his thought. He went over to his gear and fussed with his holster.
“Isabelle and I aren’t like that,” Scott began.
“You mean not romantic?” Trent asked.
“Uh, no. Not really.” Scott aimed at the target again, pretending interest in the exercise. He felt more like the bull’s-eye was drawn on the middle of his chest. “Isabelle and I are friends. You know?”
“Yeah?” Luke narrowed his eyes. “Is that because that’s how she wants it or how you want it?”
“It’s how it is.”
Trent unloaded his gun into the target, then turned to Scott. “I thought you told me you two were sweethearts in high school?”
“We were just kids then.” Scott turned away, avoiding Luke’s steely gaze. He knew exactly what his best friend was thinking.
Scott had returned to Indian Lake four years ago to take care of his mother, who had needed a new heart valve. He’d had to leave his job at the Chicago Tribune, but he’d sensed a layoff was around the corner anyway; journalists had been losing their jobs across the nation, and it was only getting worse.
He’d been in town a few months when he’d run into Isabelle at one of Mrs. Beabots’s Sunday dessert parties. Sarah Jensen had invited him, and since Sarah’s mother had recently died, Scott thought he was doing the friendly thing by attending. Sarah’s girlfriends were all there, including Isabelle.
In minutes they’d struck up a conversation. Scott had been surprised she didn’t seem to hate him for not staying in touch as he’d promised.
Isabelle had told him she was now the bookkeeper and sometimes-hostess at the Tall Pines Lodges of Indian Lake. He remembered the green-eyed girl who’d painted sea nymphs and faeries for a high school play he’d codirected. Isabelle had designed the backdrops: stunningly beautiful moonlit forests that pulled the viewer into their magic. Scott had been mesmerized by her back then.
However, Scott’s ambitions had been strong and he’d already been accepted to Northwestern which tempered his romantic feelings. Once Scott left for Chicago, Indian Lake and the girl back home had seemed like part of another life. He had immersed himself in creative writing and political science, spent nights huddled with new friends from California, New York and Beijing whose viewpoints stretched his thinking and blew apart what he thought he knew about the world.
Scott had believed then that the world was his oyster and he would only be satisfied with the pearl.
He hadn’t told Isabelle any of this that Sunday evening at Mrs. Beabots’s house. Like the investigative journalist he was, he’d asked her about her life instead.
Isabelle had been taking art classes for years, including a few at the Art Institute of Chicago. She couldn’t stop talking about walking along the shores of Indian Lake and imagining water sprites looking up at her from the cool depths. She was compelled to paint them.
Scott had become mesmerized all over again.
That summer after returning home, Scott had done everything to be near her. He paid Sarah Jensen double the going cost for a booth at the St. Mark’s Summer Festival to make sure his booth for his coffee beans and books was next to Isabelle’s art display.
As the months rolled on, Scott realized Isabelle had changed, as well. When it came to her art, she was fiercely ambitious. He’d recognized the same fire in her eyes that his own had held when he’d worked at the Tribune. Because his situation had altered so drastically, Scott had had to reinvent himself. He’d had to learn to be satisfied with lesser aspirations. Which was why he’d opened his bookstore and coffee shop.
Since those first months of his return, everyone in town had considered him and Isabelle to be a couple. But the truth was that Scott had no idea if Isabelle loved him. The one time he’d told her he loved her, she’d dismissed his declaration, telling him he couldn’t possibly love her because she hadn’t become her true self yet—hadn’t accomplished enough. She intended to do a great many things with her talent and her life. She hadn’t “come into her own.”
Scott had scratched his head over that one, but he’d let it go. He’d made his intentions clear, and he hoped that one day Isabelle would see what was right in front of her. There had never been another woman for him, and to his knowledge Isabelle wasn’t interested in another man. They were good friends. Best friends, really. Isabelle was Team Isabelle. Though not in a selfish way.
“Guys. What can I say? We’re just not ‘there’ yet.”
Luke shot a glance at Trent, who shrugged. “So, this gives you another year to save up for a really big rock.”
Scott shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think a diamond would impress this woman.”
“What would?” Luke asked.
“That’s easy. Hanging her paintings in The Guggenheim.”
Trent whistled and slapped Scott on the back. “Come on, I want you guys to help me with something before we leave.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” Scott asked as he put away his GLOCK and gathered his ammunition and protective glasses.
Trent stuck his arms through his black jacket and stuffed his gloves in his pockets. “I received a call from Richard Schmitz at CPD...”
“He’s your counterpart in Chicago, right?” Scott asked. “I interviewed him for my articles.”
Luke led the way out of the shooting range, waving to the attendant as they left. “By the way, Scott. That article was fantastic. Great writing. I felt like I was right there in the middle of the action.” Luke stopped short, and Scott nearly ran into him. “Wait! What am I saying?” Luke snickered. “I was in the middle of the action.”
Scott didn’t need reminding. Luke’s daughter, Annie, had been talking to little Danny when Le Grande had appeared, grabbed Danny like a sack of flour and raced off with him.
Dozens of people had witnessed the kidnapping. Le Grande might dodge the drug dealing and selling charges, given his high-powered and expensive criminal attorney, but that kidnapping was another matter. Scott hoped Le Grande would be locked up for decades. “Trent. Tell us what’s up.”
“Le Grande has been busy behind bars. Like many powerful people in the drug trade, I’m afraid.”
“That does tend to be the case,” Scott replied. Apprehension seemed to snake across the frozen ground and grab him by the heels. It had only been three weeks since Trent had nailed Le Grande and arrested five of his gang members in Indian Lake. Trent had later told Scott the heroin alone was worth over a quarter million. The meth had a street value of half a million. Scott knew exactly what Trent was about to say. Deals like that didn’t die. They morphed into something bigger and more sinister.
“Come on,” Trent said as they walked quickly toward Luke’s SUV. “I want to drive by the old WWII ammunitions plant that’s just down the road from here.”
“Why?” Scott asked, climbing into the back seat.
“Richard has reason to believe that members of Le Grande’s gang are scouting Indian Lake, Gary and possibly up into Berrien Springs, Michigan, for a place to make methamphetamine.”
“No way,” Scott exhaled. “They’d come back here?”
“Why not? They know the terrain and a lot of the existing dealers.”
Scott peered at Luke, who glanced at him in the rearview mirror. He shook his head. “I was hoping this was behind us.”
Trent turned in the passenger seat to look at Scott. “You both are sworn to secrecy. Off the record, Scott. You got that?”
“This can’t be good.” Scott sighed, his eyes still locked on Trent. “Yeah. Sure.”
“I’ve got a lead on a guy who is making the meth.”
Scott sat up straighter. “And?”
“I’ve been on stakeouts, but the guy moves around a lot. He’s got his playbook down pat. He wheedles his way into friendships with disabled young people he finds in soup kitchens and churches. Lately, he’s been recruiting construction workers, too.”
Luke chimed in. “That’s because it’s winter and guys like me don’t have a lot of work. And they hang out at pool halls, bars.” He turned into an unplowed drive that led through a cluster of trees.
“That’s right,” Trent continued. “So our guy’s name is Frankie Ellis. Or that’s his alias this week. Anyway, he gets these kids to let him bunk with them, then he talks them into making meth. They become accomplices. And he’s got them.” Trent made a fist.
“And you think he’s out here at the old ordinance plant?”
“I do.”
Scott looked out the window. “I was hoping Indian Lake kids would be safer after you nabbed Le Grande.”
“Me, too.” Luke clutched the steering wheel.
“Afraid not,” Trent said, shaking his head.
They’d reached the end of the drive and were approaching a row of long, narrow manufacturing buildings from World War II. The white paint on their exteriors was chipped, and some of the faded green shutters hung at odd angles. A concrete drive circled a naked flagpole and a raised planter that at one time, Scott imagined, had been filled with red, white and blue flowers. Weeds and poison ivy, now strangled by winter’s kill, decorated the front of a matching office building. To the far right were what appeared to be barracks and hangar-like buildings for transport vehicles.
During the war, the compound had been a source of pride and hope for Indian Lake residents. They had thought they were fighting back against the greatest evil of all time.
Luke drove into the complex and stopped at the heavy rusted chain across the entrance. Trent turned to Scott. “Take photos with your phone. I’m going to check it out. You both stay here.”
“What?” Scott stared at him “What if Ellis is in there?”
“Both of you know how to handle yourselves in any situation. I wouldn’t put you in danger. Scott, you’re the best journalist around. You see things that I even miss. I’m relying on your eyes. And Luke, I could take lessons from you, man.”
“We’ve got your back, Trent,” Luke said.
“Yeah, we want to help. It’s our town, too,” Scott added. Scott watched with a clenched jaw as Trent jogged away, ducked under the chain and hustled up to one of the buildings.
“What if this meth dealer has friends? Like some of Le Grande’s murderous gang?”
“I’m sure Trent thought of that.”
“I hope so,” Scott replied warily. “This is nuts.”
Luke shook his head slightly. He had slipped his gun out of its holster and put it on the passenger seat.
Scott swallowed hard. “Okay.” He picked up his phone and took a series of photos, using his zoom. “I need a telephoto lens for this. And the sun is going down.”
Luke pointed out the window. “It’s abandoned. See? No tire tracks on the snow. No footprints around, except Trent’s. It’s probably safe enough.”
“Why do I get the feeling Chief Williams doesn’t know anything about this?”
“Of course he knows. Trent wouldn’t jeopardize his job. He said the chief trusts Trent’s instincts when it comes to intel.”
Luke sighed. “It’s getting dark. He won’t be able to see in there. And if he finds anything substantial, he’ll need to get a warrant.”
Scott was relieved to see Trent hustling back toward the SUV a few moments later. He climbed in and buckled up. “I can’t see anything through the windows and even that broken one didn’t help since I don’t have a flashlight. I should get a warrant.”
Luke laughed to himself and backed out of the drive. Scott’s phone pinged with a text. “Problem there, buddy?” Luke asked.
“No. Just Isabelle. She wants me to bring some ice to the party. She said I’m late.”
“Party?”
“Yeah. Her mother has a Christmas party every year on the twenty-third. It’s tradition. Just family.”
“Really? And she didn’t have you working KP duty all afternoon?” Luke met Scott’s eyes in the mirror, eyebrows raised.
“She asks for lots of other help, but not for the dinner. Except for the ice,” Scott replied. Scott sensed where this conversation was going. His buddies thought they were supporting him with their inquiries and suggestions. But when they brought Isabelle up like this, it embarrassed him that he helped her out with so much, and yet, she wasn’t as serious about him as he wanted her to be. As he felt about her.
He read the text again. It was terse and hurried.
Where are you? You were supposed to be here an hour ago. Bring ice.
Scott would have been on time if not for the unscheduled trip to the ammunitions plant. Maybe only slightly late. This was the third Christmas that Scott had been invited to the Hawkses’ family party. Her two sisters, Sadie and Violet, would be there, of course, since they both lived at home. Dylan, who was twenty-nine and only eleven months younger than Isabelle, would be home from the South Side of Chicago where he was a prosecuting attorney. Christopher, an EMP and first responder, lived north of town and Ross, a forensic CPA who commuted into downtown Chicago for work, would also be on hand.
Scott liked all of Isabelle’s family but for some reason, she always seemed tense during this party. When he’d asked her about it in the past, she’d always said she was fine and that there was a lot of work to be done. But Scott had long wondered if her family made her nervous.
Or was it possible that his presence at Christmas upset her?
Luke and Trent were talking about their families and the threat of the rising drug problems. They both vowed to risk their lives to save their loved ones.
Scott slid his phone back into his pocket.
He knew, without a doubt, he would put his life on the line for Isabelle. But suddenly, he wondered if she had ever felt that strongly about him.
CHAPTER TWO (#uc49a32f3-c9e6-55e4-9433-52e6c86a7ed2)
ISABELLE WIPED THE sweat from her forehead with her sleeve as she hoisted the stack of Christmas plates out of the cupboard in the storage room. After steadying herself, she placed the stack on the counter below and climbed down the ladder. When her mother had designed this storage area, Isabelle had praised her for it. She hadn’t realized that she’d be just about the only family member using this room.
It was always this way on holidays. Isabelle’s family talked for months about these big gatherings, the food they’d buy at the deli, the bakery, the butcher—nearly all premade since her mother, Connie, didn’t have time or the desire to cook for everyone. Neither did Sadie or Violet. All three boys were excellent at ordering takeout. Isabelle was the only one in the family whose culinary skills were self-taught. She was no gourmet, but she could get by. But she drew the line at preparing a feast when no one else seemed willing to lift a finger.
The food wasn’t the problem. Connie ordered turkey, mashed potatoes and green bean casserole from the grocery store. Pumpkin pies came from the bakery. Sadie made stuffing out of a box on top of the stove. Gravy came from a jar and was heated in the microwave.
But as had been the case for nearly all their lives, everyone left the rest of the details up to Isabelle. Today, she’d arrived at her mother’s house to find that not only had the table not been set, but the linens for it hadn’t even been laundered.
Isabelle felt like she was ten years old again, when all the household responsibilities and childcare had fallen on her shoulders.
