Under The Agent's Protection

“Is there any other way?” asked Wyatt. “And a cup of coffee.”

Sally turned to Everly. “What about you, hon?”

“I’d love some apple pie, thanks.”

The couple from the back of the restaurant stood and walked forward. The man, tall with a shaved head, nodded a greeting at Everly, then glanced at Wyatt and stopped abruptly. “Wyatt? Wyatt Thornton? I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Marcus?” Wyatt got to his feet and shook the other man’s hand. “Marcus Jones, it’s great to see you. What’re you doing in Pleasant Pines?”

“I’m grabbing a late lunch with my friend Chloe Ryder. She’s the local district attorney.” He whistled through his teeth. “I honestly never thought I’d see you again. You disappeared after leaving the Bureau. What are you doing with yourself these days?”

“I live in Pleasant Pines.”

“Well, it’s great to see you. Wyatt, this is Chloe. Chloe, Wyatt.”

Chloe, a tall brunette with a fringe of bangs, took Wyatt’s hand. “It’s a pleasure,” she said with a smile.

“Nice to meet you, Chloe,” Wyatt said. “Ah, this is Everly Baker.” He paused, and she wondered how he was going to explain her to the duo. “She’s from Chicago.”

Pleasantries were exchanged and then Wyatt asked, “How’s work? Are you still the special agent in charge in the Denver office?”

“I left the Bureau, if you can believe that.”

“Been there, done that, have the T-shirt.”

Marcus laughed. “Anyway, I joined a private security group out of Denver and we’ve opened an office in Wyoming. What about you? Where are you working now?”

“Me?” Wyatt shook his head. “I quit altogether after what happened in Las Vegas. A quiet life suits me just fine.”

“Maybe you should stop by. You could be a great asset to the team.”

“I’m not much into being a team player anymore,” said Wyatt.

“You never know. Private security might suit you better than a quiet life.”

“Private security,” Wyatt repeated. “What does that mean? Are you a private investigator? Do you find cheating spouses?”

“We are so much more than that.” He took a pad of paper and a pen from his coat pocket and scribbled for a moment. “That’s my cell number. Call and I’ll give you the tour—tell you a few war stories. Hell, some of them might even be true.”

“I’m not interested in work, but thanks.” Wyatt waved away the offered paper.

“Take it,” said Marcus. “You never know when you might need a friend.”

Wyatt folded the sheet of paper placing it in his back pocket.

“Anyway,” said Marcus, “Chloe has to get back to work, and I’ll let you two get back to your date.”

Date. The one word hung in the air, like smoke. It reminded Everly of how handsome Wyatt Thornton was and how very long it had been since she’d actually gone out on a date. “He seems nice,” said Everly once they were alone.

“Marcus Jones is as good as they come.”

Sally returned with their pie and coffee. The conversation stalled as she set everything on the table. Everly took a bite, chewing slowly. The crust was light and buttery, the apples inside sweet, with just a touch of spice. She sighed. “You’re right,” she said. “Best pie ever.”

Wyatt smiled. “I’m glad you like it, but let’s get back to why we’re here to begin with. First, do you know what your brother was supposed to photograph?”

“A wolf-pack migration, I think,” she said. She bit her lip. “I can’t recall the magazine he was on assignment for, but I can find out.”

“Do you think he was targeted because of his work?”

She took a sip of coffee, which was surprisingly good for a diner in Nowheresville, USA. “No way. My brother was a good person and could charm the hell out of anyone. And he was good at what he did, the best photographer I’ve seen. Everyone loved Axl.”

Wyatt scooped a bite of pie into his mouth. “What else?”

Everly’s mind had been so full of possibilities, but now it was empty. Then she remembered. “The sheriff gave me a list of all Axl’s possessions.” She dug through her purse and found the folded note.

Flattening the sheet on the table, she read aloud. “Shirt, shoes, socks, wallet, three credit cards in the name of Axl James Baker. One hundred and twenty dollars in twenty-dollar bills and half of a two-dollar bill.”

“Wait,” said Wyatt. “Go back. Read the last line again, the one about the money.”

“One hundred and twenty dollars in twenty-dollar bills and half of a two-dollar bill.”

“The last case I worked.” He paused.

“The serial killer in Las Vegas,” Everly offered.

“He left a calling card of sorts on each of the victims. To avoid copycat killers, we never shared that fact with the media.” Wyatt paused and took a drink of coffee. “It was half of a two-dollar bill.”

Everly began to tremble. She grasped her hands together and asked with a whisper, “Are you saying...? Did a serial killer murder my brother?”

“It’s worse than that,” said Wyatt.

Everly couldn’t imagine what might be worse. “Really? How is that possible?”

“Not only was your brother murdered, but the killer is on the loose in Pleasant Pines. As that bump on your head proves, he knows exactly who you are—and you could very well be the next victim.”

The stench of antiseptic hung in the air and Carl Haak’s eyes watered. He leaned against the stainless steel counter and concentrated on the feeling of cold metal against his hip. The corpse of Axl Baker was laid out on a table, a cloth pulled up to his chest.

“My initial finding,” said Doctor Lambert, “is that the deceased had a blood-alcohol content of point-one-five.”

“That’s good and drunk,” said the sheriff, “and well above the legal limit, but not enough to cause death.”

Doctor Lambert was a slight man with gray hair and a pointy beard. The combination always put Carl in the mind of a billy goat. Doc Lambert stroked the end of his beard for a moment. “I don’t think so, either.”

“Then why do we have a corpse?”

“My best guess? Our Mr. Baker drank too much, got lost and either laid down to sleep it off or he passed out in the old schoolhouse. The alcohol would’ve slowed his circulation, making it easier for hypothermia to set in. He simply never woke up.”

“Are you willing to put that as the cause on a death certificate?”