Deadly Competition (Without a Trace) Read online

  “Sarah’s father was found back there,”

  Clint whispered.

  “I keep the door locked now.”

  “Aren’t there any suspects at all?” Mandy asked.

  He shook his head. “There were, but none have panned out. Can you imagine? In a town this size, there’s a killer out there—someone who probably committed all three murders—and he’s walking amongst us as free as can be.”

  “Daddy?” Sarah’s voice trembled.

  A rustling sound came from the back corner of the shop. Silence—then something heavy crashed to the floor with a sound of breaking glass.

  Sarah screamed.

  WITHOUT A TRACE: Will a young mother’s disappearance bring a bayou town together…or tear it apart?

  What Sarah Saw—Margaret Daley, January 2009

  Framed!—Robin Caroll, February 2009

  Cold Case Murder—Shirlee McCoy, March 2009

  A Cloud of Suspicion—Patricia Davids, April 2009

  Deadly Competition—Roxanne Rustand, May 2009

  Her Last Chance—Terri Reed, June 2009

  Books by Roxanne Rustand

  Love Inspired Suspense

  *Hard Evidence

  *Vendetta

  *Wildfire

  Deadly Competition

  ROXANNE RUSTAND

  is an award-winning author of eighteen books, and is truly delighted to have this opportunity to write for Steeple Hill’s Love Inspired Suspense line.

  Her first manuscript won a Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award for Best Long Contemporary of 1995. She was a Romantic Times BOOKreviews Career Achievement Award nominee in 2005, and won the magazine’s award for Best Superromance of 2006. She has presented workshops at writers’ conferences from coast to coast, and is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers Association, the Faith, Hope and Love Chapter of RWA, Authors Guild and Novelists Inc.

  Roxanne and her husband live on an acreage in the Midwest and have three children, two semi-retired horses, a couple of goofy border collies named Elmo and Harold, and a number of very demanding cats. She loves to hear from readers, and can be reached through www.shoutlife.com/roxannerustand and www.roxannerustand.com, or by snail mail at P.O. Box 2550, Cedar Rapids, Iowa 52406.

  DEADLY COMPETITION

  ROXANNE RUSTAND

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to

  Roxanne Rustand for her contribution to the

  Without a Trace miniseries.

  The Lord is a refuge for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble. Those who know Your name will trust in You, for You, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek You.

  —Psalms 9:9–10

  Writing is usually a solitary business, but every now and then, an opportunity comes along to work on a series with other writers. It has been a sheer joy, as well as an honor, to participate in the Without a Trace continuity with wonderfully talented authors Margaret Daly, Robin Caroll, Shirlee McCoy, Patricia Davids and Terri Reed. Thanks so much to all of you!

  And thanks also to Diane Palmer, Pamela Nissen and Jacquie Greenfield. I treasure our friendships more than words can express.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  PROLOGUE

  At the sound of his sister Leah’s old Mustang pulling to a stop in the driveway, Clint Herald opened his front door to the damp, gray January evening, his heart heavy.

  Could his three-year-old niece even grasp the concept of death? Did Sarah still think her daddy would be coming back?

  There’d been no forewarning of her father’s apparent suicide four days ago, and it still made no sense. And now the troubles were just beginning for Clint’s sister and his young niece.

  Clint leaned down to scoop Sarah up for their customary hug but did a double take when he saw the stark expression on his sister’s face.

  “Keep her safe,” Leah whispered, casting a swift glance over her shoulder. She leaned forward to give Sarah a hug. Then thrust her daughter forward into Clint’s arms and backed away. “Please.”

  Surprised at the tension in her voice, Clint reached for Leah’s hand, but she took another step back. “What’s going on?”

  “N-nothing. I just have to go.”

  Leah had asked Clint to keep Sarah for the evening while she talked to her lawyer about the tangled legal situation at her late husband’s pawnshop. Earl had died without ever getting around to adding Leah’s name to the property or his will. Yesterday’s modest funeral had almost wiped out their joint savings—just the start of the financial worries she would be facing.

  But from the desperate look of yearning on Leah’s face as she turned away from Sarah and hurried to her car, Clint feared that his sister must be in even deeper trouble than she’d revealed.

  “Leah, wait a minute!” Clint called out. But his sister didn’t look back.

  She climbed into her car, shut the door and rammed the stick shift into reverse, grinding the gears—something she never, ever did to her beloved old car.

  “Leah?” He felt his pulse quicken. “Leah!”

  Taking the porch steps two at a time, he started after her with Sarah still in his arms, but the car shot down the gravel drive toward the highway in a cloud of dust.

  Sobbing, Sarah twisted in his embrace, her favorite doll clutched to her chest. She reached toward the car with one outstretched hand. “Momma!” She screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Momma!”

  Clint stared as the Mustang took the turn onto the highway far too fast and fishtailed wildly. Then its wide tires grabbed asphalt and the vehicle sped out of sight.

  The nightmare of finding her husband’s blood-soaked body had shaken Leah terribly. The overwhelming details of planning his funeral had taken an even greater toll on her over the past few days, despite Clint’s efforts to help out. But until now, she’d been stoic, perhaps numb with grief. She certainly hadn’t seemed afraid.

  Yet he’d seen the terror in her eyes tonight, and her farewell had seemed tinged with despair.

  He raced to his pickup with the crying child in his arms. Why hadn’t Leah confided in him? He would do anything in the world to help her.

  Now, he prayed that wherever she was going and whatever she was facing, she’d be back tonight. She’d never leave Sarah. Sarah was her life, especially since his sister’s relationship with her now-dead husband, Earl, had seemed pretty rocky lately. Leah poured all of her love into Sarah. She would never abandon her little girl—unless—No! Leah couldn’t have had anything to do with Earl’s murder, and she would never leave Sarah unless she thought Sarah would be in some kind of danger if she stayed with her. Danger? What was he thinking?

  As he carefully buckled Sarah into her car seat, then climbed behind the wheel of his pickup, Clint whispered a prayer for his sister—a prayer that she’d be safe and back soon.

  ONE

  Mandy Erick flinched as the door of the Greyhound slid shut behind her.

  The bus lumbered away, taking with it her chance to reach Texas
or California or Oregon anytime soon. Leaving her standing on the edge of Loomis, Louisiana, a backwater town in the middle of nowhere.

  Though maybe the middle of nowhere was the safest place for someone who’d had to leave her old identity behind.

  A cool, late April rain dripped off her hair and into the collar of her thin jacket, and she wished she’d had time to pack an umbrella. A raincoat. For that matter, an extra pair of shoes.

  But lingering could’ve meant being discovered. Being stopped before she could leave town. A few minor possessions were a small price to pay for her life.

  Blinking at the raindrops on her eyelashes, she squinted toward what had to be the downtown area. Mostly dreary, rain-streaked brick buildings as far as she could see in the early morning light. No cheerful neon signs, no traffic. Not a soul in sight.

  She could only hope that in a few hours the town would bustle to life, because blending anonymously into the fabric of this place would be impossible if there wasn’t a lot of activity here.

  Small-town locals noticed strangers. Gossiped about them. Remembered when they showed up and when they left, and might take pleasure in sharing all those juicy tidbits with other strangers who could come along and start asking too many questions—a thought that made Mandy shudder.

  But she’d had no choice. She’d had just enough cash to make it this far and couldn’t risk using her credit or debit cards.

  She turned to study the shabby little diner tucked into the trees at the far end of the gravel parking lot.

  Not much bigger than a two-car garage, the building had peeling paint and the outside sign was partly burned out, leaving just BIT—CAF and its name to the imagination. Still, there was an Open sign propped in the front window, the lights were on inside and anything had to be better than standing out in the rain.

  Hiking her backpack up higher on her shoulder, Mandy grabbed the handle of her suitcase and trudged toward the café.

  From somewhere in the dim recesses of her memory came the words of a childhood prayer. She snorted in disgust. Prayer might have worked back then, but it had been a long, long time since God had shown any interest in helping her, and she had the scars to prove it.

  Mandy was definitely on her own.

  The lone waitress came back to the booth in the corner every ten minutes or so, offering more coffee. Probably wishing Mandy would finally leave, since she’d finished her egg-and-a-piece-of-toast breakfast far more than an hour ago. But where did you go in a town like this at seven in the morning—and in the rain?

  “More coffee?” The waitress, skinny and weathered, looked as if she’d been left out in the elements for a few years to cure, but there was a warm hint of concern in her voice this time around.

  She stood at Mandy’s elbow with a coffeepot in one hand, her other hand on her hip, then snagged an upended cup from a neighboring table, filled it, and slid into the opposite side of Mandy’s booth. The faded badge on her yellow scrub top read Nonnie.

  “Where’re y’all headed?”

  Mandy shifted in her seat and avoided the woman’s knowing eyes. “West. I…have relatives out there.”

  “Gotta long ways to go.” Nonnie took a long sip from her cup and then cradled it in her gnarled hands. “Lookin’ to stay around for a while?”

  “I—” Mandy glanced around the small diner, wondering if she dared asked about a job. She realized at once that with the low base pay most waitresses received, plus the minimal tips possible in a place like this, she wouldn’t be able to afford rent, much less save money for her escape. “I don’t know.”

  Nonnie seemed to read her mind. “Small place, I know. Me and my hubby own it, though. He cooks, I tend tables. We’ll have a good little crowd of regulars starting around seven-thirty.” She pulled a thin newspaper from her apron pocket and pushed it across the table. “I grabbed this from the back, just in case you’re looking for a job or a place to stay.”

  Mandy ventured a quick glance at her but found only genuine concern on the woman’s face. “Thanks.”

  “You best be careful, though. There’s been trouble ’round here this spring. Pretty little gal like you oughta watch her step.”

  “T-trouble?”

  “Three murders since January, and a sweet young woman went missing, so maybe there was a fourth. All of that, yet there’s some who still put way too much stock in frippery.” She gave a snort of disgust and tapped the headline of the paper that read Mother of the Year Pageant in Full Swing! “Whoooeee—you’d think them gals were runnin’ for president. And most of ’em wouldn’t be my idea of a good momma. Fancy ways, careers—their golf club more important than the PTA. But you can bet money talks, and one of those rich gals will win. Happens every year.”

  “Murders?” Mandy’s stomach tied itself into a queasy knot.

  Nonnie shook her head as if she still couldn’t believe it. “This town was quiet for decades. And then last winter…”

  The woman’s eyes suddenly shimmered with tears, and Mandy wondered if she’d been close to some of the victims. “Have they caught whoever did it?”

  “Nope. Some folks figure it’s…” She clamped her mouth shut. “But that’s just idle gossip. I don’t believe a word of it.”

  Mandy’s unease grew, tightening its grip on her middle. Danger was following her. Now she’d landed in a place where she’d need to be on her guard even more. “Were the murders related?”

  “Probably, to my mind. Everyone in Loomis is connected some way or another. Roots run deep in a place like this—some tangled in secrets and dark ways you just don’ wanna to know, chérie.”

  The waitress made a shooing motion with her hand. “Go on, check the classifieds. It’s just our local paper, but you might find something. You can use our phone, if need be.” She stood. “I’d best go pass a mop over this floor so it can dry before things get busy.”

  Mandy watched the woman scurry back to the kitchen, then took a deep breath as she pulled a pen from her backpack and started scanning the ads.

  She had no money to continue on, and she needed to find a safe place where she’d be beyond Dean’s reach. With a low-profile job and a cheap place to live for a month or so, she could build up her reserve of cash.

  Whatever the local troubles were, she’d keep her distance from people here, avoid saying too much, and she’d be on her way as fast as possible.

  And she’d never, ever be back.

  Rain. Endless, miserable rain. The last few weeks had been one endless drizzle, unseasonably cool, and the weather was a constant reminder of the gray day in January when Leah had dropped off Sarah and disappeared without a trace.

  Clint sighed wearily, the ever-present weight of sorrow pressing down on his chest even as he summoned up a cheerful smile. “Time to go, punkin’,” he said. “We need to take a little drive.”

  “Don’t wanna go!” Sarah wailed as she kicked over the pile of blocks she and Clint had just stacked ten high.

  She clearly knew what was up and wasn’t having any part of yet another long, boring stint in the office of his construction business while Clint talked business with a client—even with all the toys and DVDs he’d set up for her there. But she had no choice.

  His parents had died when he and Leah were in high school. There were no other relatives in the area. And the babysitter Sarah liked wouldn’t be done with school and softball practice until after four o’clock.

  Clint just couldn’t send Sarah to daycare or preschool, not since someone had tried to kidnap her shortly after her mother disappeared. No, he needed someone he could trust to keep Sarah in his home—and keep her safe and secure. Sarah had been through too much. Clint wasn’t sure what she’d witnessed around her father’s death, but now she was a troubled little girl who desperately missed her momma, and who’d begun acting out at the least provocation if separated from her uncle Clint.

  His ads for a nanny-housekeeper hadn’t yielded a single good prospect. Some applicants who called sounded
uneducated. Lazy. Some asked “when the kid took naps and for how long.” One volunteered that a little strong cough medicine could keep a kid quiet for hours.

  The few applicants he’d interviewed hadn’t been any better—from the one who’d actually been casing his house to the one who visibly withdrew in distaste at Sarah’s tentative approach.

  So now he was struggling to be a substitute dad while trying to keep his construction company together and search for his sister, and he felt as if he was failing at every turn.

  Looking for his shoes in the wall-to-wall rubble of toys filling his living room, he stepped over the scattered blocks, landed barefoot on a LEGO, bit back a yelp of pain and sank onto the sofa.

  Sarah scrambled up into his lap and wrapped her little arms around his neck. “I want Mommy,” she said somberly, her eyes sad and defeated. “She does Band-Aids and kisses on owies.”

  He closed his eyes against the familiar wave of pain that swamped him whenever he thought about what Leah must be going through, if she was even still alive. The terror and pain she might’ve faced on the day she disappeared. Had she been injured? Was she wandering aimlessly now, suffering from amnesia? Or was she being held against her will?