Mystery: The Sam Prichard Series - Books 5-8 Read online

  Indie stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head. “Sam, who? I got nothin', here, help me out.”

  Sam smiled. “Bill Miller,” he said. “Remember, he's not actually a man, just lives as one because of his past, and a small genetic defect.”

  Indie's eyes flew wide open. “Oh, good heavens,” she said, “you could be right. But does he have an assistant?”

  “Only one way to find out, without scaring them off.” He took out his phone and called up a number, then dialed it on speaker so Indie could hear.

  “You got Jimmy,” came the answer.

  “Jimmy, it's Sam Prichard,” Sam said. “I need to ask you a question.”

  “Sure, Sam, what do you need?”

  “Jimmy, you know Bill Miller. Does he use an assistant for anything? A female assistant?”

  Jimmy Smith was quiet for a moment, then said, “Well, yes, come to think of it, he does. Lady named Dora McCann. Why?”

  “Just something I'm working on,” Sam said. “You ever talk to Bill about what happened to Barry?”

  Once again there was a moment's hesitation. “Yeah, he called me one night not long after you got me out, and we talked. He was about half drunk, wanted to let the whole world know how much he hates us all. I know you know the score, what with him and the kid and all, but if you ask me, he was as much in love with Barry as anyone could be. Just never said so, and now he hates the whole world because Barry's gone.”

  Sam sighed. “I'm sure he isn't too fond of me, then.”

  Jimmy laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “You could say that,” he said. “You not only made him relive the worst night of his life, you took Barry's place with the band. He isn't likely to forgive either one of those.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine. Okay, thanks, Jimmy. Talk to you later.” Sam hung up and turned to Indie.

  She was tapping keys on her computer, and Sam saw that she was on Facebook. “I'm checking Bill's Facebook, to see if Dora McCann might be on his friends there—and here she is.” She clicked on a link, and a new profile came up. The picture on the upper left was of a dark-haired woman in her early forties, and when they compared it to the unscrambled photo, they both agreed they'd found the intended victim.

  “Okay, now what?” Indie asked. “If you go near her, Beauregard says you'll be in more danger than she's in. How are you gonna handle this one?”

  “In the last note, he said if I identify this woman, he'll meet me at her home, and I'll get my chance to stop him. The way I read that, he wants me to meet him there at the time he set for the killing, which is one AM. He doesn't want cops involved; he wants a showdown between him and me. If I go to the police, he'll know it, and then he'll either go ahead and kill her, or if he can't, then he'll go after someone else, probably Mom or Kim. If I do things his way, I think the reason I'll be in more danger than her is because he'll be expecting me. What I've got to do is find a way to tip the odds in my favor, so he won't have the edge he thinks he's got.”

  Indie stared. “And? I'm listening, Oh Great One, so what's the secret plan?”

  “Know your enemy, and yourself,” Sam said. “That's the advice we got, remember? After going through so many cases, and dealing with this invisible man and his notes, I think I know him fairly well. He isn't out to shoot me down in a drive by, like he usually does; this time, he wants to face an opponent he feels is worthy of him, and right now he's thinking I'm that guy. He said he'd meet me at her home, and I'm sure he means tonight. I've got to keep that appointment.”

  “Sam,” Indie said, “I'm scared. What about if you call Harry back and get some of his people to help, to go and be there before you show up? I've got her address, here...”

  “If our guy sees anyone else there at all that he isn't expecting, he'll either go ahead and kill her, or bolt and declare himself the winner by forfeit. Then he'll start going after people I care about. I can't let that happen. I'm going, and I'm going alone.” He smiled and pulled her close for a kiss. “How about let's go make some dinner? We can invite Mom and Kim to stay and join us.”

  Indie smiled, but it was weak. “If you get yourself killed, Sam Prichard, I'm going to tell Beauregard to make sure he haunts you forever.”

  Sam looked stricken. “Oh, come on,” he said. “Being dead would be enough punishment, don't sic him on me, too!”

  She managed a laugh, and they went to the kitchen. Grace and Kim were still sitting there. “Hey,” Indie said, “I'm making beef stew and noodles for dinner, you guys want to stay?”

  “Sure,” Kim said. “We don't know when we can leave, anyway, and if Sam's gonna go and sing tonight, we thought we'd just tag along for that and stick with you.”

  “That's a good idea,” Sam said. “We know who the victim is, and I'm going to meet the killer after the show. Keep your fingers crossed that it goes well, please.”

  No one commented on the tears that Indie kept wiping away as she opened cans and boiled noodles.

  * * * * *

  When dinner was over, they all went to the living room and watched some TV for a bit, but Sam was anxious, so they left for the Casino a little early. Sam and Indie went in the Corvette, with Grace and Kim following in Grace's Cadillac. Indie would go with their mothers after the show, so Sam could keep his appointment. Sam had the Glock in its holster, and a second gun, a little thirty-two caliber that Harry had given him, tucked into the back of his jeans. He prayed that he wouldn't need them, and that the vest he was wearing would keep the audience from noticing that he was armed.

  The band was getting their gear out when he and Indie got there, and he and Chris talked about the order of songs for the night, and some minor changes Chris wanted to make to a couple of them. Sam was agreeable, and then asked for a spot for an acoustic solo. Chris grinned.

  “New song?” he asked.

  Sam shrugged. “Not a new one, but one I haven't done before.” He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Chris. “You might join in on backup, if you feel like it.”

  Chris read through the lyrics and smiled. “Man, this is good stuff. We gotta work it in; let's bring it to rehearsal this week.” He looked at Sam. “So, how goes the hunt for the killer? Any luck?”

  “Some, but I can't talk about it. I'll let you know tomorrow, if everything goes according to plan.”

  Chris nodded. “Got all my fingers and toes crossed for you, Sam, and so do the others. We weren't sure you'd make it tonight; I'm glad you did.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “I wasn't sure either, but I think it's best if I keep up appearances for now. Let's give 'em a show, right?”

  Chris slapped him on the back and went to help set up. Sam, Indie, Grace, and Kim went inside, and he found the ladies a table not too far from the stage. Sam got a coke while they were waiting to get started.

  “This isn't easy, you know,” Indie said, “sitting here and acting like everything's normal when I know you may be going out to get killed in a few hours.”

  Sam took her hand. “Baby, I promise you, I'm coming home tonight. No matter what happens, I plan on coming home to you, alive and well.”

  She sniffled, but managed a smile. “I'm gonna hold you to that one, Sam Prichard.”

  “Good, because I mean it.” He kissed her cheek, and then he heard Chris calling his name, and went up to the stage.

  It was time. The announcer introduced them, and Chris struck a chord on the guitar, and they launched into “I Got Married In The Elvis Room,” a fast-paced, funny song that got the audience up and dancing within seconds after it began.

  The show was fun, and the crowd loved them even more than they had the night before. Sam saw several faces he recognized, but there were a lot more people in the place than there had been for their debut, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. The thought crossed his mind that the killer was probably out there in the crowd, somewhere, and he caught himself looking closely at the taller men in the big room, but none of them stood out to him. All o
f them seemed to be with someone, and he figured the killer for a loner. He couldn't see anyone that set the hairs on the back of his neck to standing up, so he hoped he was wrong.

  They got through the first set and to their break, and Sam sat down at the table again. Indie seemed to be in a better mood, and he figured the music had a lot to do with that. He wondered how she'd react to the song he was going to do. It wasn't one she'd heard before, and it wasn't one of his lighthearted songs; this one spoke of heartache and lost love, and he couldn't help wondering if he was cursing himself, somehow, by singing it that night.

  Too late now, he figured. He'd already gotten Chris excited about it, and Chris was like a bulldog; once he got his teeth into something, he didn't let go.

  The break ended and he kissed Indie again, then got back up on the stage. Chris nodded and handed him an acoustic Yamaha, and he settled himself onto the stool he used when his hip got to bothering him too much.

  “Okay, folks,” he said. “I'm gonna do one now that you haven’t heard before. This is one I wrote a while back, and I had it going through my head today, so I thought I'd dust it off and sing it. Hope you like it.”

  He strummed the guitar, and played a few notes, then began to sing. (Click to listen)

  Never been quite strong enough to take things as they come,

  I just pretend they're better than they are,

  So when I got back home today, and found the note that you left,

  I told myself you wouldn't go too far,

  You said that you were leavin', that you found somebody new,

  And won't be comin' home tonight,

  But I lie here and tell myself that it simply isn't true,

  Thankin' God that my heart will let me lie,

  So let me lie here and tell myself that you’re not really gone,

  Let me tell myself you didn't say goodbye,

  I don't wanna face the truth tonight, let me lie here in my dreams,

  I know I'm lyin' to myself but let me lie,

  Morning comes much later when you're sleepin' all alone,

  And even later when you haven’t slept at all,

  But the creakin' of the door tells me that it's time to face the dawn,

  As our little girl comes down the hall,

  When she asks me where her mommy is, my lies all disappear,

  When I tell her that you've gone, she starts to cry,

  But I promise you'll see her, with a whispered, silent prayer,

  “This one time, please, God, don't let me lie!”

  As I lie here and tell myself that you’re not really gone,

  Let me tell myself you didn't say goodbye,

  I don't wanna face the truth tonight, let me lie here in my dreams,

  I know I'm lyin' to myself but let me lie,

  Never been quite strong enough, to take things as they come…

  There was a moment of silence in the room, and then the crowd erupted with applause. A few people rose to their feet, and then everyone else followed, in a standing ovation that made Sam blush with pride. He looked down at Indie, though, and saw a worried look on her face, and wondered again if he had somehow chosen the song as a way of saying goodbye. Maybe he subconsciously expected to die, he thought, but then he shook it off. He'd survived worse than this guy; he'd survive this, too.

  A sudden thought hit him. Who, he wondered, could have known that Bill Miller was really a woman? Okay, granted, he wasn't actually a woman, he was a hermaphrodite, but someone who only knew part of the story—that he used to be Wilhelmina, and now lived as a man named Bill—might come to the wrong conclusion. As far as Sam knew, only he, Jimmy Smith and Barry's sister and her husband knew the truth about Bill, so he was dealing with someone who knew only part of the truth.

  The band struck up the next song, and Sam had to put his thoughts into the back of his mind for the moment. He let it simmer there as he sang, and made it through one song at a time, but that thought kept nagging at him. Finally, between two songs, he got out a pen and a receipt he found in his vest pocket, wrote a quick note, and had a barmaid take it to Indie.

  She read it, looked up at Sam and nodded, then took out her phone. He could see her talking on it, one finger plugging her open ear, as he and the band did “You've Made The Difference,” and when she hung up and looked at him, the expression on her face told him that she had the answer.

  It was all he could do to finish the set, and when the show was over, he hurried down to her. She leaned close so that he could hear her but no one else could, and said, “I called Bill Miller like you said, and managed to convince him it was a life-or-death situation without giving any details. He says there's only one other person who knows he used to be a woman, but wouldn't know all the details, and that's his counselor. He goes to the counseling center at Caleb Porter's church, Sam.”

  Sam froze and stared at her face. “Did he say who it was?” he asked.

  “Yep! The man's name is Darrell Unger! And guess what else—he was gone on a mission to South America from September of twenty ten until December of twenty eleven!”

  “Oh, dear God,” Sam said. “That explains the note at the church! But this is only circumstantial evidence, it'd never hold up. We can't get an arrest on this—I've got to play it out, but at least now I know who I'm dealing with.”

  Indie shook her head. “Sam, please,” she said, “let the police handle it now. You don't have to do this, you know who it is...”

  “Babe, we can't prove anything. Unless I can get proof, knowing is almost worthless. If I'm going to stop him, I have to catch him in the act.” He leaned down and kissed her quickly. “I've got to go, Babe, but I'll be home before you know it! Find Porter's number and call him, let him know that it's Unger, and tell him to be careful!”

  He hurried out the door and to his car, glancing at the windshield but not seeing any more notes. He looked around the parking lot and saw that there were many cars leaving, so there would be no way to tell if one of them was following him as he left. He'd have to wait and see if he had a tail once he got on the street.

  There was no one tailing him, he concluded a few minutes later, but then, why would there be? Darrell Unger, if he was the killer, would know where he was going and would be waiting there, somewhere out of sight, most likely. Sam would have to be careful, if he was going to keep his promise to come home.

  It was a twenty-five minute drive to where Dora McCann lived, and Sam found the place with no problem. He parked the Corvette right in front of her house, killing the lights just before he pulled to the curb. The moon was pretty bright, so he didn't have the advantage of true darkness, but he wanted as little light as possible for this confrontation.

  He sat in the car for a moment, letting his own eyes adjust to the lack of light, then stepped out carefully, looking around as he did so. The neighborhood was one that was designed like small-town America, with trees and hedgerows all around. There were a million places where someone could hide, and Sam didn't have a clue where to look. He moved slowly toward the house, up the walkway that led to the front door.

  There were no lights on inside, and Sam hoped they didn't have motion sensor lights set up outside, or he'd suddenly find himself in a spotlight that would probably get him killed. He hadn't told Indie, but he felt that the killer had actually chosen to play the game in order to make Sam his next victim. He was desperately hoping and praying that he could outwit a murderer who had been getting away with his crimes for a decade and a half.

  He didn't have any delusions, though; Sam knew he was literally walking into a death trap, and that the odds of his survival were against him.

  When he reached the front of the house, and his heart sank. It was only twenty ‘til one in the morning, and he should be in plenty of time, but he could see that the front door was standing partly open. He thought quickly; the last note had said that the killer would meet him at the victim's home, so Sam carefully pushed the door further and peered inside.


  He could see the living room, though it was dark. There didn't seem to be anyone there, and he walked inside carefully, drawing the Glock as he did so. He held it out in front of him, the way he'd been trained to do at the Academy, as he moved further into the house.

  The living room was clear. There were two doors leading out of it, one to the kitchen, and one to a hallway. He checked the kitchen first, cleared it, and saw that the back door was still closed and locked securely with a deadbolt. No one would be coming in that way without making a lot of noise, he knew, so he went back to the hall. There was a bathroom straight ahead, and he saw two doors to the right and one to the left. The one by itself would almost certainly be the Master Bedroom, so he went toward it.

  The door was open just an inch, and he got to the far side of the door quickly, then used his toe to push it a bit further. A glance inside showed him Dora McCann laying in the bed, wide awake and staring at something out of his line of vision. He knew she had to be looking down the barrel of a gun.

  “Unger?” he said in a normal tone of voice. “It's over, Unger. I found her like you wanted, so it's you and me now, right?”

  A shot rang out, and a bullet came through the wall just to the side of his left shoulder. Sam rolled to his right, moving away from the door as rapidly as he could. He heard clicking sounds, and a moment later another shot came through next to his face, spraying his cheek with debris from the shattered wallboard. Sam rolled again, keeping as quiet as he could, but he knew it was only a matter of time before a bullet found him. The hall ended in a blank wall, and there was nowhere else to go.

  He cursed himself for getting into an indefensible position. There was no cover, nothing to hide behind; he was exposed, and the only thing he could hope for was that Unger would come out into the hall, but he didn't expect it. He tried to put himself into the killer's mind, and thought about what he'd do next. As soon as the thought struck him, Sam rolled back toward the door, just in time to escape another shot that came through the wall right where he'd been crouched a split second before.