Blind Trust Page 9

  Sherry bolted upright on the bed, her eyes rounded. “My father?”

  “Yes. He knows where we are. He arranged for us to hide here.”

  “My father knew where you were?” The words came out on a shaky, disbelieving breath. “He’s involved in this?”

  “Yes.” He silenced her with a fingertip to her lips. “I’ll tell you every—”

  “How long?” The question was uttered too loudly, and she grabbed Clint’s arm and shook him. Her eyes blazed with fear and betrayal, and he knew he couldn’t keep the truth from her any longer. “How long has my father been involved?”

  “Since the beginning.”

  Sherry was mute with shock.

  “He wanted to protect you,” Clint said in a voice meant to be soothing.

  “Protect me? He wanted to protect me?” She shook away from Clint and stood up. “I’m sick to death of being protected! And lied to! And afraid! Clint, why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I couldn’t tell you everything when I didn’t know if we’d make it here or not. I didn’t want you just knowing that much, and thinking all the way that your father was some kind of criminal. You’ll understand in a minute.” He touched her face again, the gesture bestowing his promise to make things clear. “We’ll go inside and get some coffee, and then I’ll tell you everything.”

  Tears sprang to Sherry’s eyes. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  “Where’s Madeline?” she asked, as if the change in subject could erase the reality.

  “Sam took her in.”

  “She’s probably scared to death,” Sherry said. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the sudden shivering. “I want to see her.”

  “All right.”

  Clint stood up and took her hand, but she jerked it away. She had begun to trust him again, because she had wanted to so badly. But somehow the new development, all the lies and betrayals, confused her more than before.

  “Sherry, when you understand, you’ll forgive us all.”

  Unconvinced, Sherry turned away from him and started out of the camper. Two jean-clad men with pistols strapped to the left sides of their chests waited beside the camper door, and when she saw them, she gasped.

  “It’s okay,” he said. He tried to dispel his own uncomfortable feeling at the new men Grayson had sent. “Let’s just go on in.”

  The men followed them into the house, where at least ten others, including Sam, sat in a conference over coffee and cigarettes that filled the room with a haze. Sherry gave a dull glance over the men, one by one, wondering how dangerous they were and what they were all hiding from. Her breath caught when her eyes met those of Gary Rivers, the sergeant on the Shreveport police force, whom she had been involved with before Clint. Her mouth came open of its own accord. He had known, too. He, too, had been involved. And when she had begged for his help after Clint’s disappearance, he had lied. He had even asked her out a few months ago, when he had known that Clint was hiding somewhere waiting to get back to her. “Gary?” The word in itself was an accusation.

  Rivers stood up and reluctantly looked her in the eye. “How are you, Sherry?” The question came as calmly, as guilt-filled, as she expected. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Clint stiffen and take a step forward.

  “I’m just great,” she muttered sarcastically. Raising her chin, she turned to Sam, her eyes narrowed against any more surprises. “Where’s Madeline?”

  “In the first bedroom on the right,” he said. “She was dead to the world.”

  Sherry shivered at the choice of words. “I want to see her.”

  “Go ahead,” Sam said wearily, matching her defiant tone.

  She looked at Clint, and with a brooding expression, he nodded that it was all right.

  The room where Madeline slept, like the rest of the house, was decorated in rustic neglect. It smelled of dust and mold, and the oak floor was scuffed and scratched, dirty from years of muddy hunters’ boots tromping over it. But the bed looked inviting, and Madeline lay curled up like a baby kitten.

  Sherry wanted to kill her. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she shook her. “Madeline, are you all right?”

  Madeline pulled the covers up over her head. “Sherry, I’m asleep.” She snuggled into a tighter ball.

  Sherry tried to wrestle the covers away from her. “Madeline, wake up!”

  “What is this?” Madeline snapped. “Boot camp?”

  With a sigh of long-suffering irritation, Sherry shook her head. “Madeline, we were just abducted and driven to some dusty rundown house out in the middle of nowhere after a mysterious plane trip and driving for hours. Doesn’t that make you the least bit curious?”

  Madeline shook her head. “It makes me tired.”

  “Well, at least that aspect of my curiosity is satisfied. Obviously that man didn’t hurt you.”

  “Sam’s a pussycat,” Madeline mumbled.

  “A pussycat? Madeline, he packs a gun and he’s dangerous.”

  Madeline struggled to open her eyes, but only managed two slits. “Read my lips, Sherry. He’s a pussycat. The worst crime he’s guilty of is singing off-key.” She giggled into the pillow. “And you should hear how he slaughters perfectly good lyrics. There ought to be a law.”

  Sherry stared at her friend and wondered if Madeline was right. “Then you think they’re on the right side of the law?”

  “Could be.”

  Madeline’s noncommittal assessment was exasperating, but for a moment Sherry turned the possibility over in her mind.

  “My father’s in on it,” Sherry mumbled finally.

  Madeline’s head came up in a sudden exhibition of interest. “Your father?”

  “All along,” Sherry said. “Clint just told me.”

  Madeline threaded her fingers absently through her tousled dark hair. “Wow. What else did he tell you?”

  “Nothing yet. I wanted to see you first.”

  “Well, go beat it out of him. What are you doing talking to me?”

  Sherry twisted her fingers in her lap. “Gary Rivers is out there too.”

  “Gary?” Madeline sat all the way up this time, shaking her head as if to clear the fog. “Wait a minute. Gary was in on it?”

  Sherry nodded. “It’s all getting so big, and so complicated. I think I’m afraid to know.”

  “Well, it couldn’t be as bad as it seems,” Madeline said. “It never is.” She yawned and gave Sherry her sleepy assessment. “So how’d it go back in that camper? I gave you up for dead when I quit hearing the yelling.”

  “We stopped yelling for a while,” she said softly. “All it took was the reality of a knife scar on his side.”

  “A knife?” Madeline swallowed. She was fully awake now. “As in sharp pointed thing that does serious damage when thrust into flesh?”

  Sherry nodded.

  “Go get details, Sherry, before my imagination gets as carried away as yours.”

  Reluctantly, Sherry stood up and looked back down at her friend. “How’s your knee? Need aspirin or anything?”

  “It’s okay. Sam got me ice,” Madeline said. “Now, go. Get the story, then come tell me what’s going on.”

  Sherry left her and headed back up the hall. Lowered voices from the living room beckoned her, and softening her footsteps, she stepped toward the door and listened.

  “But he’s dead.” Clint’s voice came clear and angry over the others.

  “Did you tell anyone? Your pastor, or a friend?”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” Clint returned.

  “Then obviously Paul told someone. Maybe that’s why he died. Maybe they didn’t think they could trust him because he waited so long to tell them.”

  “There was no way I could have known.”

  “You could have listened to us.” She recognized Gary’s voice-deep, accusing. “We told you it was too soon to go back there.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Just watch my life go by like it’s so
me bad dream? For all I know it could have been eight more months before I was able to go back. These trials go on forever!”

  “Well, your impatience brought Sherry into the line of fire, and nobody’s happy about that.”

  “And you think I am? She’s going to be my wife. I would never have dragged her into this intentionally.”

  “But you did, nonetheless.”

  She heard Clint’s footsteps, heavy, irate.

  “You’re not fooling anybody, Rivers,” Clint blurted, “with your sensitive concern for Sherry.”

  “Well, at least I have some semblance of concern! Not like you, dragging her into this mess just to satisfy your hormones.”

  Something fell over and crashed onto the floor, and the noise of a scuffle ensued.

  “Stop it, Clint,” Sam shouted. “This isn’t helping anything. We’ve got to stand together. This guy was sent here to help protect you.”

  “Somebody’ll need to protect him if he doesn’t keep his filthy mouth shut!” Clint thundered. “Why did Grayson send him here, anyway?”

  “He trusts him,” Sam said. “There’s no room here for grudges.”

  Tension seemed to float in the air like a lethal gas ready to explode with the lighting of a match.

  Sherry heard Clint stalk across the room. “I want to make something clear to you, Rivers,” Clint said in the low vibrato of fury. “I’ve had about as much of this as I can take. This is my life. I’m the pawn here, not you. None of this was my idea, and I didn’t ask for it. If it weren’t for me, Grayson and Breard wouldn’t even have a case. I’ve had it up to here with putting a hold on my life and waiting to be called to the stand and wondering who’s going to jump out of the bushes next and who I can trust and if the woman I love is going to die because of something that I never even wanted to see!”

  Sherry caught her breath and struggled to follow his words.

  “I’ll stay here with you for as long as it takes to get out of this, but I’m not going to take any more of your accusations. I could disappear right now and Givanti would go free, and you know it.”

  Givanti! Sherry stepped into the doorway and locked astonished eyes with Clint’s black, piercing eyes. He relaxed his stance a bit at the sight of her. He was the mystery witness in the Givanti trial that her father’s office had been prosecuting. He wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t a kidnapper. He was trying to be a hero.

  But one didn’t have to know all the details to see that Givanti must have people after him. And it was her father’s fault that Clint was the primary target for every thug in the area. Her father’s fault. No wonder he wasn’t trying the case himself. Her relationship with Clint presented a conflict of interest. Wes had been right. Her father couldn’t be trusted.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” Clint said sarcastically, “I need to talk to my fiancée. I’m sure she has a lot of questions, and she’s as entitled to answers as anyone. Is it all right for us to go outside?”

  “Yeah, we’ve combed the woods. The place is secure.”

  Clint took her hand and started for the door. Two men got up to follow after Clint, and he ground his teeth together and shoved his hand through his hair. “I’d like to be alone.”

  “That’s impossible,” Rivers said with finality.

  “Then keep your distance,” Clint warned. “This is going to be a private conversation, not a group discussion.”

  He led her outside.

  The midnight sky was star-studded, and the crescent moon hung overhead like a painting. Crickets chirped a deceitful song of peace, and wind whispered through the leaves and in her hair, cooling the burning feeling of horror shooting through her. The two men waited a few yards behind them, eyes alert and hands at their sides, as if they fully expected to be needed.

  “You’re the star witness in the Givanti case,” Sherry said in a low murmur before Clint had the chance to begin. “I’ve figured that out. What I don’t know is how.”

  Clint dropped wearily to a tall patch of grass and leaned back on his elbows. “Remember Paul Calloway?”

  “The college student in your youth group,” Sherry said. She recalled the handsome young man with blue eyes and shaggy brown hair, and the ambitious spirit they’d all admired. She hadn’t seen him in months. He’d been at Louisiana State University this semester, she assumed.

  “He borrowed my coat at a retreat we were on, when the temperature dropped and he hadn’t prepared for it. The last day I saw you I found a vial of cocaine in that coat. I went to see him to confront him about it, and to try witnessing to him. Only it happened that I wound up witnessing a drug deal and a murder, instead.”

  Chapter Ten

  Paul Calloway killed somebody?” Sherry asked, amazed. “Paul Calloway tried to kill me,” Clint said. The very name made his adrenaline surge, and he could feel his face reddening at the memories. “It’s hard to believe that such a chain reaction could have started from one visit I paid to a mixed-up kid. If I’d only known when I knocked on that door …”

  There was no turning back. The knock on the door made it final, sealing the decision to confront Paul with his finding. Clint looked down at the vial in his hand and shook his head. It explained a lot of things. It explained Paul’s sudden bursts of energy during the mission retreats Clint had taken the kids on. It explained the wild look in his eyes when he’d shown up late at special events. It explained his distant preoccupation at times when Clint was praying he’d get through to him. He would probably get angry for Clint’s intrusion. But Clint could live with that.

  Because it was his business. He had grown fond of the twenty-year-old kid who reminded him of himself at that age. He didn’t want to see him ruin his chance at a good life before it even got started. Clint wasn’t about to let him throw it away by getting drawn under the spell of cocaine abuse.

  The door opened, and Paul caught his breath at the sight of Clint. “I … I thought you were someone else.” Raking a distracted hand through his brown hair, the young man looked past him, his pale blue eyes darting up the street in front of his house.

  “Can we talk?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Paul said quickly. “I’m expecting some people.”

  “Paul,” Clint prodded. “It’s important.”

  “Sorry, man. I’ll call you later.” The door started to close in Clint’s face, but undaunted, he stopped it with his foot.

  “I found something in the pocket of the coat I loaned to you last week, Paul,” he said, “And I’m not leaving until I talk to you about it.”

  “My pocket? Wh—?” The word got caught in his throat as Clint brandished the vial. With a sigh that seemed more impatient than surprised, Paul stepped back and let Clint in. “I appreciate your returning it, but you can’t stay.”

  Clint walked into the house that Paul had said he was taking care of while the owners were in Europe. In one look, he could see the disregard for property—clothes strewn over chairs and sprawled across the floor, dirty dishes cluttering the table, glasses with cigarette butts floating in rancid liquid. Briefly, he wondered if the owners had expected this when they’d asked Paul to house-sit. He turned back to Paul, who was at the window now, peering nervously out. “Man, I mean it. You have to leave!”

  “Not until we talk,” Clint insisted again. He sat down in a chair and leaned forward. “Paul, you don’t need that stuff. You have a lot going for you, and I don’t want to see you—”

  “Okay, fine,” Paul agreed, cutting him off. “I’ll quit.” He took the vial, rushed to the kitchen off the den, and poured it into the sink. Hurriedly, he ran some water down the drain, then came back to Clint. “See? It’s gone. Now will you please go?”

  “You expect me to believe that it’s over just like that?”

  Paul’s face flushed crimson, and he banged his fist into a wall. “What do you want from me? An affidavit? I told you—” The sound of an approaching car outside stopped his words and he swung back to the window, cursing. “I knew
this would happen. They’ll see your car—”

  “I’m on my ten-speed,” Clint said. “Who are you expecting—?”

  “You have to hide. Hurry up. Get upstairs! Now.”

  “What?”

  “Hide upstairs, Clint! If these people see you, they’ll kill us both. This is no joke. Get upstairs and hide in the bathroom. And don’t come out under any circumstances.”

  “Paul, I’m not hiding anywhere—”

  The rage in Paul’s crimson face was urgent, desperate. “Listen to me, man! I’m trying to keep you from winding up just another unexplained stiff. Do what I say!”

  The doorbell rang, and Clint began to believe the panic in Paul’s eyes. “Please, Clint!”

  Reluctantly, Clint started up the stairs, but he didn’t hide in the bathroom. He got out of sight behind the rail overlooking the lower level. Paul was obviously nervous as he let several men in. Immediately, Clint recognized Tony Givanti, a local businessman, and Steve Anderson, recently named Teacher of the Year at the local high school. He strained to hear as the men filed into the house, arguing among themselves about the price of something for which they were negotiating.

  Givanti ordered Paul to show them what they wanted, and as Clint watched from his hiding place, the young man produced several bags of cocaine.

  “What’s the street value?” one of the buyers asked.

  “Over a million dollars,” Givanti said. “You’re getting a bargain.”

  “We can only pay half now,” the buyer said.

  Givanti bristled. “No way. We had an agreement.”

  “But things didn’t work out like we planned. We had trouble coming up with the cash, but we’ll have the rest by tomorrow.”

  Clint watched as Paul’s eyes darted nervously upstairs to make sure he was out of sight, no doubt hoping that Clint hadn’t seen or heard anything. Clint scooted back so the young man wouldn’t see him. So this was how Paul had paid for his sports car. And this house was probably his. And the clothes and trips …