Under The Agent's Protection

“Well, I know what I saw, and I know what happened to me,” Everly insisted.

“You wait here,” said Darcy as she got to her feet. “I’m going to call Sheriff Haak, and the doctor, too. A hit to the head that’s strong enough to knock you out probably gave you a concussion.”

The sheriff? So far Darcy hadn’t pressed Everly for how she got into the room, even though it was obvious. What would the sheriff say? Certainly, Everly had broken at least one law when she stole the keycard and entered a room that wasn’t hers—the official order to stay out notwithstanding.

Then again, Everly would bet anything that the attack hadn’t been random. She’d been targeted. That didn’t put anyone else at risk, but it left her exposed. The bump on the back of her head was a warning—nothing more. If anyone wanted her dead, they could’ve easily killed her in the minutes that she was unconscious. The thought left her chilled, and she crossed her arms over her chest to staunch a tremble.

“Hold on a second,” she called to Darcy. Everly stood slowly, the throbbing at the back of her head increasing in tempo and intensity. “I’m not sure that I was hit. I mean, I hit the back of my head—but I might have fainted and come down on the edge of the nightstand.”

“You were so sure you’d been attacked just a minute ago.”

“My brother died unexpectedly, and I flew all night from Chicago to be here. I was standing in his room and it smells like he did, you know. It was overwhelming.” Everly sighed and touched the lump on the back of her head. She winced. “To be honest, there’s nothing that I’m actually sure of right now.”

“Even if you don’t know, you should still talk to the sheriff.”

“I really don’t want him involved.”

Darcy shook her head. “You have been through a lot and I don’t want to make trouble for you. Just, please, don’t make any more trouble for yourself. Sheriff Haak is a good man—he’ll figure out what happened.”

“I hope so,” said Everly.

“If you fell, you still need to see a doctor. I can call him for you.”

“I’ve met Doc Lambert already. I’ll get in touch once I get to my room,” said Everly, even though she had no intention of calling anyone.

“Are you sure?” asked Darcy.

As if to prove that she was fit, Everly grabbed the handle of her suitcase and rolled it from the room. “Positive,” she said, then added, “Thanks for everything.”

Darcy followed Everly and pulled the door closed. “Call the front desk if you need anything at all—that’s legal at least.”

Everly held out the purloined keycard. “Sorry about that,” she said.

Darcy took the card. “Just don’t do it again, and we’ll be even.”

After giving the desk clerk a wave, she walked to the elevator. Thank goodness Everly knew how to sell a story. In fact, her bit about fainting had been so convincing that Everly almost believed it herself. Now that she didn’t have to deal with the sheriff, she needed to find out who would want to keep her away from Axl’s death.

In her estimation, there was only one suspect. It was the same man who wanted her gone and had also found her brother’s body.

Everly wheeled the luggage to her room and entered. Despite the fact that her head still throbbed, she sat at the desk. Removing her laptop, she powered it up and entered two words into the search engine. Wyatt Thornton.

There wasn’t much on the internet about Wyatt Thornton. A real-estate transaction, along with a local address. She wrote down the address. And a notice that he’d adopted a dog from a county rescue.

There had to be more. In this day and age, nobody lived off the grid. And if they did, it was because they didn’t want to be found.

She tried again. W. Thornton.

The search was met with a question. Did you mean Special Agent W. Thornton? Thousands of hits followed. She scanned headlines from articles about a notorious serial killer in Las Vegas and the FBI profiler in charge of the case: W. Thornton. She moved the cursor to hover over the No icon. Then she stopped. Her eye was drawn to a photograph of several FBI agents, and one of them was unquestionably the same one she met earlier today, Wyatt Thornton.

His hair was longer now, with just a touch of gray that he hadn’t had when the photo had been taken years ago. The suit he wore had been replaced with jeans, but it was him.

Immediately she wondered why he’d come to Wyoming and, more important, why not tell Everly if he had a professional opinion about her brother’s death?

She clicked on the article, which was four years old. A string of killings—all single men—had stunned the hard-to-shock city of Las Vegas. The FBI, through their behavioral scientist, Thornton, had a suspect. On closer scrutiny, the suspect had an alibi for one of the killings. It was a fact that had been missed, or possibly suppressed, by Thornton.

The media didn’t have a killer, but they had an incompetent or possibly dishonest FBI agent. Thornton had been crucified by the press. And the killings? They stopped. One subsequent article wondered if it hadn’t been a fabrication of Thornton’s all along.

For a moment, she felt sorry for Wyatt. And then she wondered—if he’d have come to her for public-relations help, what would she have said? Probably that he should move someplace where no one knew who he was, or didn’t care.

At least she knew what he’d been trying to hide and why he wanted no part of a possible murder investigation.

She hesitated for only a minute before pushing back from the desk. She grabbed the keys to her rental car. As she picked up the hastily copied address, she made a decision. Wyatt Thornton had investigated murders before. He was an expert in unexplained crimes. He would know how to put all the puzzle pieces together and his was an expertise she was determined to use.

Chapter 3 (#u1a1c30fa-d106-5a39-91c5-0226220446aa)

Wyatt sat behind his desk and stared at the computer screen. Nearby, a fire crackled in the hearth. Gus was lying in the middle of the room, soaking up the warmth. Eyes closed, the dog’s chest rose and fell with each breath.

Call it a compulsion, but despite vowing that he’d leave the Axl Baker investigation alone, Wyatt had dug an old case file from where he stored his important paperwork in the spare bedroom. He’d also opened an internet search for the deceased. So far, there was nothing of interest. Criminal record: two DUIs along with one violation of the Illinois open-container law. All three incidents had occurred more than seven years ago.

Wyatt also found a testimonial from Axl detailing his time in a Chicago addiction treatment center, along with several of his photographs that were part of an auction held five years back. Since that time, there’d been nothing.

Professionally, Baker was a successful photographer who worked freelance for some of the world’s most popular nature magazines. Just as his sister had said, he had plenty of experience to survive a night or two outside in the wilderness. Could it be suicide? It was impossible to really know anyone. Still, taking his own life didn’t seem to fit the profile here.

Gus lifted his head and looked toward the window, letting out a bark.

He heard the engine a moment before he saw the car’s light cutting through the gathering storm. A car turned from the main road onto his driveway. The promised snow had arrived, and the car’s headlights illuminated the flakes as they fell.

Standing at the window, Wyatt peered into the storm. Gus moved to his side and lifted his paws to the sill, barking as the car pulled up to the house.

“I see her, boy.” Even from a distance, he could see the driver—Everly Baker. The feeling of her hand beneath his fingertips returned. The memory ran up his arm and traveled down his spine. With a shiver, he threw another log on the fire.

Gus began to bark in earnest and Wyatt saved the internet search for Axl Baker, then powered down his computer. The doorbell chimed, and he paused a moment. Everly Baker was the first visitor to his house and Wyatt’s jaw instinctively tightened.

He glanced around the room—sofa, desk, easy chair. TV on the wall. Exposed wooden beams on the ceiling. He’d done all the work to the house himself, knocking down walls to create a single room. More that, Wyatt had kept the original moldings and window seat. Through all his time and effort he had created more than a home—a refuge.

Yet, he hadn’t dedicated years to have his house invaded by an uninvited guest.

He opened the door and there she was, on his stoop, hand lifted and ready to knock. The wind whipped through her hair, making it look like she was surrounded by flames. She was more than beautiful, she was fierce—the vengeful goddess of a Celtic clan. Then he reminded himself that her problem was not his and he decided to be as unfriendly as possible. “What do you want?”

Gus nosed past Wyatt, his tail wagging. The dog approached Everly, panting.

She bent down and ran her hands through the dog’s coat. “Well, who’s a handsome boy?”

The dog licked Everly’s chin. So much for being unfriendly. She giggled.

“Gus, come here.”

His order went ignored.