Tidings of Fear. Ericka Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ her mom and dad, killed in a robbery attempt while they were on vacation, and her flakey little sister, Lia.

      They hadn’t spoken for seven long years. Not since Lia had come to her, professing that she could have prevented their parents’ death if she’d only paid attention to “the signs.”

      Sylvie had not only not believed her, she’d ridiculed Lia. As a relatively new agent, she had her eyes on the prize: the top of the career ladder. Having a crazy little sister proclaiming to be psychic embarrassed her beyond reason. As a result, she’d said things she later realized she didn’t mean. After her derogatory remarks, Lia had stormed out. She never came back.

      Although pretending disinterest, Sylvie had followed her sister’s career as a photojournalist. It seemed her sister did lead a charmed existence. She’d escaped death on more than one occasion, the most notable on that fateful September morning when Lia had refused to get on a plane. That airplane had later crashed into the Pentagon.

      Was Lia psychic, or just damn lucky?

      Eyes too heavy to hold open, Sylvie stopped fighting gravity and did the only thing she could do. She focused on the clues she had. Her captor seemed to have a hard-on for the number eight. She pictured the number, seared it in her mind in flaming red letters. Crossword puzzles, the management service’s phone number and the big pink Victorian also held significance. She pictured the images over and over until they seemed to be playing on the back of her eyelids.

      Then, she did something she thought she’d never do. She prayed.

      * * * *

      As he left his office, the hair on the back of Jared’s neck tingled. He looked over his shoulder, expecting to see a plainclothes police detective lurking in the background. Instead, he saw nothing.

      Which didn’t add to his peace of mind, especially since he’d experienced this feeling more and more often lately. When had it started? A week ago? Months ago? Hard to pin down an exact date. Harder, still, to isolate this feeling of being watched from any of the other times. Ever since he’d hit puberty, he seemed to give off alluring pheromones that drew women of all types and ages. After a while, he’d learned to ignore the attention he attracted. However, this feeling of being watched held menace. Was it his imagination, or was someone truly watching him? That thought gave rise to a new and even more disturbing question.

      Was he a suspect in this case?

      Why should he be? He lived a boring and mundane life. Work in the morning, office hours and tutoring in the afternoons, then home to sit in front of his computer or the television. Occasionally, he had a date.

      Unfortunately, he had terrible luck with women. No, not luck’s fault. The blame lay solely with him. Those potential relationships failed, because he didn’t put any effort into them. Oh, some of the women were beautiful, cute, funny—all good qualities. But all of them were missing something, that je ne sais quoi that made a woman irresistible and unforgettable. He’d only met one woman who had captivated and enthralled him. She’d been like a drug, an addiction he couldn’t get enough of, and she’d left him without even saying goodbye.

      Most disturbing, he fit the profile he’d seen illustrated on numerous crime dramas. He had no close family, no close friends. Quiet, a loner who kept to himself. The perfect suspect.

      Damn.

      He looked down at the piece of paper clutched in his hand. Mark Powers, The Agency, crossword puzzle question. A consult or an interrogation?

      A better question might be whether he should he call a lawyer. Did he even know one? The university probably kept one on retainer; however, the attorney probably only handled business-related issues. Not… He swallowed hard. Not criminal issues.

      Tamping down the panic, he found his beat-up gray Volvo in the staff parking lot. Luckily he’d invested in a GPS mapping device for his car. He’d only ever heard of historic Camel Cove.

      He followed the computer voice to the correct exit. Traffic congested the freeway and navigating proved challenging enough to keep his mind off all those niggling questions until he pulled up to the address the agent had given him.

      Camel Cove had been named for a failed government experiment to use camels as pack animals in the mid eighteen-hundreds. Located along the shore of Southhampton Bay, the picturesque town looked untouched by time. A large white courthouse tucked on a green knoll sat overlooking the blue waters of the bay. An old-fashioned square of historic buildings painted in soft pastels made up the downtown area.

      He glanced down at the address on the paper he’d laid on the passenger seat of the car and then looked at the building with a sense of disbelief. A three-story white Victorian mansion that housed a coffee shop on the ground floor and had a sign identifying the second floor as a bridal boutique.

      He’d expected an official building, a police station or a high rise. But a coffee shop? All the parking spaces in front were full, so he drove past. As he did, the navigator announced he’d passed his destination, in a tone that almost sounded irritated.

      He circled the block, still puzzling. After a few futile attempts, Jared finally found parking a couple of blocks away.

      The smell of coffee and baked goods teased his senses when he walked in. Resisting the urge to get straight to business, Jared joined the line instead. He ordered a small black coffee and an enormous cinnamon roll. Hell, if he ended up going to jail he might as well do it on a sugar high.

      After the barista handed him his java, Jared quickly isolated the man he was to meet. Although there were several single men sitting alone at various tables, one stood out. Where the other men wore business casual khakis and polo shirts, a man gazing out the window wore a pair of worn jeans, scuffed boots and a blue and white striped polo shirt. Beside him on the table sat a white ten-gallon cowboy hat. It matched the accent on the phone.

      “Mark Powers?”

      The man looked up at him.

      Jared held back an exclamation of surprise. Despite his first impression of a strong, virile man, the face that looked up at him was more wrinkled than Jared’s laundry. “Professor Trimble.”

      The man made a show of starting to stand, but Jared waved him down and then dropped into the seat across from him.

      “Thank you for meeting with me.” The man took a sip of his coffee and pulled a face.

      “Am I a suspect?” Jared winced the moment the words came out of his mouth.

      “Suspect? Should you be?”

      Well, this had started out well. “No.”

      The man grinned. Jared stared. That toothy smile looked so familiar. Did he know a Mark Powers?

      “You look familiar.”

      Mark nodded. “I’m sure I do. A little over three years ago, I disgraced the government when I single-handedly nearly got the president killed. I made the front page of almost every major newspaper in the country. “

      That explained it. Jared remembered all the bad press related to the botched security at a summit meeting in Denmark, or perhaps Sweden? Shots had been fired, but the president had escaped with his life. Had it been three years ago? He could swear he’d seen this man recently and in a different venue. On the campus or in a local restaurant, СКАЧАТЬ