If I Should Die_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [67]
He drained half his beer. Tim gave him an odd look. Sean made a motion that he wanted to leave. He glanced at his phone. Lucy had responded to his message.
I’m fine. All quiet. You?
Good, she was safe for now, but he sent her a message to be diligent and to say he’d be late. He then inconspicuously snapped a no-flash picture of Bobbie. It was not quite three-quarters of a profile shot, but Sean couldn’t risk getting closer or waiting until she was looking at him.
The band returned from their break and started tuning up their instruments. Sean used the disruption to stand, stretch, and put twenty dollars on the bar. “Jon, good to see you again. My leg’s acting up; I think we’re going to call it an early night.”
“Stop by before you leave town,” Jon said. “I’ll buy you lunch for the road.”
“Thank you, I’ll do that.” Sean tipped an imaginary hat to Bobbie. He sent the picture to Duke and Patrick when he walked outside and began to text. The air had turned much colder now that the sun was down.
Says her name is Bobbie. Possibly Roberta Swain. Five feet six inches, 125 lbs, dark red hair, might be dyed darker than natural, but is natural redhead (eyebrows). Has bodyguard or boyfriend who is in security. Approx. 180, five ten to six feet, blond, blue, possibly Russian or Scandinavian descent. Need to confirm Bobbie’s identity, run through all databases.
“What was that about?” Tim asked.
“One sec,” Sean said as he finished typing his message and sent it. “More work for my brother,” he said with a grin.
He unlocked his truck. On the driver’s seat was a torn slip of paper. Unlike the first warning this morning, this was scrawled in small, hurried block letters, but Sean knew it was from the same person.
Sean looked around, his hand on his gun. He didn’t see anyone. He carefully picked up the paper, using the tips of his fingers to hold it by the corners.
I TOLD YOU TO GO HOME. NOW YOU CAN’T.
THEY HAVE YOUR GIRL’S FLIGHT SCHEDULE.
TWENTY-TWO
Ricky parked at the abandoned farm behind Skyline Bible Church, then trudged through the fallow fields until he reached church property. He’d driven the back roads for hours, thinking about running away. But how could he? He had nothing. Finally, at sundown, he returned to town. He’d waited in the pine trees on the edge of the church parking lot for an hour until Reverend Browne finally left. He sat completely still, not thinking or feeling anything because he didn’t want to cry. It was dark when Ricky slipped from his hiding place and ran across the street to the dimly-lit cemetery where he visited his mother at least once a week. Where soon he would visit his uncle Jimmy.
His grandfather, Lawson Swain, was buried here, but Ricky hadn’t known him. He’d been convicted of murder when Ricky was three, and all he remembered was that Lawson had smelled of tobacco, rarely spoke, and when he did his voice was deep and scary and Ricky didn’t know why his mother would squeeze him tight whenever they were in the same room as his grandfather. Ricky didn’t remember anything about the trial and had never seen his grandfather again, until he was buried in this cemetery when Ricky was nine. That was two years before his father went to prison. Three years before he returned to bury his mother.
Ricky knelt in the damp grass of the small cemetery and stared at his mother’s simple headstone. The soft lights outside the church enabled Ricky to see the angel carved above her name.
SWAIN
Abigail Anne
Beloved wife and mother
“The Lord is my Shepherd.”
February 12, 1965–March 1, 2006
His mother had chosen the epitaph. His father wanted it to be “Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord,” but he had no say because he was in prison and Abigail had a written will.
Vengeance is mine.
Ricky was beginning to understand what vengeance meant.
Jimmy had been angry when Ricky told him about the fire and what happened at the mine,