At the back of the nearest shed, he paused, drew a deep breath, then keeping close to the walls of the outbuildings, made his way ever closer to the house, where once again he saw a warm patch of light glowing from the den.
He couldn’t help but smile.
Her attempt to make the house appear occupied was amateurish, even naive.
As he entered the back of the main yard, he paused, checking the house again, making sure no one was inside; then he stepped through the bushes to pause near the exterior wall of the garage.
The night was thick with falling snow; the silence broken only by his own breaths and heartbeat. No other sounds disturbed the stillness.
He was safe.
But he didn’t know for how long.
Quickly he unstrapped the snowshoes from his boots, then eased across the rear of the garage and around the back corner. Carefully, he dared flick on his flashlight and peer through the window of the side door.
No vehicle was inside.
She hadn’t returned.
Yet.
Patiently, planting his feet in the footsteps she’d made earlier, he made his way up the back porch to the door. From deep in the pocket of his ski jacket, he retrieved a ring of keys and found the one he’d had made earlier. He smiled as he remembered disabling the furnace, pretending to be a repairman, and “running out for a part” after he’d lifted the keys from the purse he’d found in her desk. He’d had the key made, returned, dropped her keys into the side pocket of her purse, then “fixed” the furnace by replacing the part he’d taken from it. So simple. So easy. And now, just as easily, he unlocked the door.
He took off his boots, hid them behind a stack of outdoor furniture, then, in stocking feet, stepped inside Acacia’s home. Scents enveloped him — cold coffee lying darkly in the glass pot of the coffeemaker, warm spices because of the scented candles placed throughout the interior, and even the tiniest waft of her perfume, still lingering in the air.
He reached into his pocket, opened a vial, and poured the powder into the ground coffee sitting on a shelf near the coffeemaker. Then, as he’d learned during his tour of duty in Afghanistan, he set about placing bugs in her bedroom, living room, kitchen, and den. They were remote, could be accessed from a receiver a long distance away, conversations listened to or recorded.
Perfect.
As he set the last tiny microphone under her bed, he smiled to himself and wondered what he might hear.
Then, checking his watch, he made his way out of the house the same way he came in and felt confident the snowfall would cover his tracks. He locked the door behind him, pulled on his boots, and carefully stepped in the very footsteps she’d originally created. Unless she arrived home in the next half hour, the snow would cover any hint of his tracks. She wouldn’t notice that her own boot prints were smaller than his.
Oh, she was a smart one, but Acacia Lambert had no idea what she was up against.
But then none of them did, and there were others who demanded his attention.
Grinning to himself, he adjusted his night goggles and found his snowshoes where he’d left them.
In his mind’s eye, he saw the bitch making her first cup of coffee in the morning. She didn’t stand a chance against him.
And soon she would realize it.
But by that time, it would be too late.
CHAPTER 15
As Kacey drove home, snow was falling in big, lacy flakes, which, had she been in a better mood, might have filled her with delight. As it was, she was bothered about her mother’s interest in David Spencer. Not that she didn’t want Maribelle to be happy, but for years the woman had been miserable, the dutiful if disinterested wife of a man she barely tolerated. When Kacey’s dad had suffered his stroke and never fully recovered, they’d sold their house and moved here, to Rolling Hills. Maribelle, with the help of the staff, had grudgingly tended to him, and during that time she’d barely been able to scare up a smile.
He’d died within a couple of years, and only then did she show any emotion that she’d loved the man or missed him.
Even then, Kacey had suspected that Maribelle had been more interested in portraying herself as the martyred widow, rather than feeling any true loss at her sick husband’s death.
“Stop it,” she chastised herself while staring at the ribbon of plowed road ahead. Her mother was happy, and that was all that mattered, she told herself, grateful that she was nearly home. Just a few more miles. Kacey should be thankful that Maribelle had found someone.
And yet she felt a gnawing dissatisfaction and wondered why her mother had found a way of skirting the most difficult of subjects.
There was something off about how she’d handled the questions about her husband’s infidelity or the possibility of any other children, something that bothered Kacey.
She’s lying. She frowned, catching sight of her troubled expression in the rearview mirror just as headlights blazed in the reflection. Your mother’s lying to you, straight out. “But why?” she wondered aloud.
Maybe it wasn’t her father who had other children; maybe it was Maribelle herself. But was that even possible?
The headlights were blinding, the guy behind her having his beams on high, the light refracting crazily as it caught in all the falling snow and mirrors.
Her mother’s reticence with the truth wasn’t going to stop her. As a doctor, Kacey had access to information and medical records that might help her get to the truth, and if she couldn’t dig it up herself, then she also had a patient who, while under anesthesia, once had claimed to have hacked into all kinds of government files. She decided that if she couldn’t get the information she wanted on her own, there was no reason not to see if Tydeus Chilcoate was the real deal, or if he was only a computer hacker demigod in his own mind due to the effects of local anesthesia. She was willing to take the chance and enlist him if need be because her mother’s reticence had really ticked her off.
What was it Maribelle had said? Oh, right, she’d suggested that Kacey’s questions were an “inquisition.” Yeah, right. Throw on the guilt, avoid the real issue. Deflect, deflect, deflect.
Irritated, she saw the bastard in the vehicle behind her pull into the oncoming lane and gun it. Engine roaring, tires spitting up snow, his light-colored van pulled up alongside hers.
Was he out of his friggin’ mind?
She slowed to let him pass. “Idiot!” she muttered and glanced over. Two people were in the front, a man and a woman, she thought. The woman, in the passenger seat, was smoking a cigarette. She looked over at Kacey and said something to the driver.
Suddenly, the guy lost control.
The van swerved into her lane.
“Damn!” Kacey stepped on her brakes and veered toward the shoulder, which sloped off to the deep ditch that ran alongside the road.
Her heart clutched.
Her tires skidded.
She gripped the steering wheel hard, her knuckles showing white as she tried to remain calm. “Come on, come on!” she said, nervous sweat dampening her brow. Her car began a slow, steady spin. The other car sped past, throwing up snow.
Drive with the spin. Don’t fight it! She remembered the old axiom her grandfather had pounded into her head from the time she was old enough to get her learner’s permit. But aiming toward the piles of plowed snow that had been swept to the edge of the road seemed wrong.
Don’t panic!
Heart racing, fear spurting through her blood, she tried like hell to steer her careening car back into the lane, but as the Edge righted, her fender sheered through the packed snow, sending a spray of ice into the air.