Deadline (Sandra Brown)

meant to stay this late. But as she made to push back the desk chair, her motion was arrested by a noise coming from downstairs.
    She knew every nook and cranny of the house, each stair tread that groaned beneath someone’s weight, every hinge that squeaked unless oiled regularly, which drawers stuck when the humidity was especially high.
    Only someone that intimately familiar with the house would recognize the scraping sound the kitchen door made against the floor when it was pushed open.
    That’s what she’d heard. And then silence.
    That, even more than the sound of the door being opened, caused her heart to lurch. Quickly she closed her laptop, pitching the room, indeed the whole house, into total darkness.
    *  *  *
     
    “Remember, just act normal.”
    “Got it.”
    “You’re just coming back to get your stuff from the beach house before you leave for home. If he’s out there somewhere watching her, that’s what he needs to think.”
    “Got it.”
    “We don’t want him—”
    “Goddammit!” Dawson snapped. “I said I’ve got it.”
    Headly had been giving him instructions since they’d left the ferry dock. Dawson was driving Headly’s rental car at an unsafe speed. Headly was hunkered down out of sight in the backseat.
    Behind them were two sheriff’s units and an unmarked car carrying four FBI agents from the Savannah office, including Cecil Knutz. All were driving without headlights, keeping back so that it appeared that Dawson’s car was the only one on the road.
    “Until Amelia is safe, the last thing we want—”
    “Is to tip him that the cavalry is out of sight behind the hill,” Dawson said, quoting Headly, who’d used the analogy earlier when he was talking through the plan with the swiftly assembled team as they crossed the sound to Saint Nelda’s.
    “If he realizes we’re on to him, he’ll have nothing to lose by killing her, if only so he can go out in a blaze of glory.”
    “If he hurts her, I’ll personally see to it that he does. I’ll blow his fucking head off.”
    “See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’re a writer, not a law officer.”
    “A wordsmith.”
    “What?”
    “That’s what that asshole Tucker called me.” You’re gonna let this pill-popping wordsmith do police work? Dawson’s impulse had been to launch himself at the deputy and demonstrate just how dangerous a wordsmith could be when provoked, but he’d let the insult slide. The personal satisfaction he would have derived from a one-on-one with the guy wasn’t worth the precious time it would have cost.
    Already an hour had elapsed since Headly had called him and told him about the fingerprint. During that agonizing sixty minutes, no one had been able to reach Amelia. She hadn’t answered either her cell phone or the landline at her Savannah apartment.
    It had been Dawson’s idea to contact George Metcalf, who confirmed that the children were still with him and his wife. Amelia had told them she would be spending the afternoon at her beach house, and that her chores there might extend into the evening. There wasn’t a landline in the house on Saint Nelda’s.
    The deputy who’d been guarding the crime scene in Mickey’s parking lot had been pulled off the detail and returned to the mainland when his shift was over, and someone had deemed it unnecessary for a replacement to be sent. No one claimed responsibility for that regrettable decision, which had left no one available to drive out to Amelia’s house, check on her safety, warn her of the possible danger, and remain with her until reinforcements could arrive.
    “Tucker’s a blowhard,” Headly said now from the backseat. “Forget him. But remember that he and the others are trained law enforcement officers. You’re not. The only reason you’re in on this is because you can reconnoiter for us without setting off Jeremy’s alarm bells. If he’s even in the vicinity. He could be in Canada by now.”
    “Do you think he’s in Canada?”
    Headly didn’t respond. If he thought that, they wouldn’t be racing to alert Amelia of the latest development.
    “Bernie’s house looks deserted,” Dawson told him as he blasted past it. “Jesus, she’s been out here all by herself. There’s a car at her house, but not a single light on. And she hasn’t answered her phone.”
    “Drive on past.”
    “Fuck that.”
    He braked and got out of the car, practically in one motion. Leaving Headly cussing a blue streak, he ran toward