Deadline (Sandra Brown)

ankle and dragged her behind the Dumpster. He straightened the hood over her head. Then he ran back to the boat. It had been remarkably easy and quick. His coffee hadn’t even gone cold.
    Dawson Scott was the name of the guy who’d almost spoiled it. He was a hotshot writer for a magazine. Jeremy had heard all about him this morning while he was eating a tall stack with a side of sausage at a truck stop off I-95. He was sitting at the counter, so he could see the TV mounted up on the wall above it.
    The sheriff’s-office spokesman was coy, but, when pressed by reporters, told them that Dawson Scott had been held in jail overnight and was still a person of interest in the girl’s murder. It had been all Jeremy could do to keep from laughing out loud.
    Investigators were also questioning some other guy. Jeremy couldn’t remember his name, but it was inconsequential. What mattered was that one person they were not looking for was the late Jeremy Wesson.
    He’d feel damn good about things if not for that one hitch: he’d have to figure out something else for Amelia.
    He was looking forward to the day when he could leave this cabin, with its moldy walls, saggy bed, clanking generator, and cookstove that smelled of propane even when not in use. Every critter in South Carolina seemed to find its way inside. He couldn’t even identify most of the scat he had to sweep up every time he returned to the cabin.
    Its one redeeming feature was that nobody knew it was here.
    Which was why, as soon as he turned off the radio and heard the light thump, indicating that somebody had stepped onto the porch, he acted reflexively. A yank on the dirty string killed the single ceiling light. Moving soundlessly and efficiently across the buckled hardwood floor, he slid the pistol from his waistband and flattened himself against the wall on the backside of the door.
    By habit, he kept a bullet chambered. The pistol was ready to fire. He raised it to chin height, held his breath, and waited.
    Jeremy heard the doorknob move fractionally. After that, nothing. But even without that telltale, almost inaudible metallic squeak, he would have known someone was on the other side of the door. He sensed a presence that signaled danger, and hell if he was going to wait and let some yokel deputy arrest him. Or try.
    He grabbed the doorknob, jerked the door open, and thrust his gun hand forward. The bore of his pistol came to within an inch of the other man’s forehead.
    Jeremy’s breath whooshed out and his arm dropped to his side. “Hell, Daddy, I almost shot you.”
    *  *  *
     
    Looking harried, Headly blustered into the kitchen through the utility-room door. Taking in the scene, he noticed the empty candy wrapper on the table. “Got any more Hershey’s?”
    Dawson said, “Fresh out.”
    Amelia offered to make him a cup of hot chocolate.
    “That would be great, thanks.”
    He pulled a chair from beneath the table and sat down. “How are you?”
    He’d addressed the question to Dawson, who raised his shoulders in a laconic shrug. “Fine. Why do you keep asking?”
    Headly opened his mouth as though to answer, then seemed to think better of it. He turned to Amelia instead and asked about Hunter and Grant.
    “When they got here, they were keyed up. It took two storybooks to get them to sleep.”
    “I’m sure they were glad to have you tuck them in.”
    “Actually, Dawson read them to sleep.”
    Headly’s gaze swung back to Dawson and held until Dawson said querulously, “You barged in here like your hair was on fire. What’s up?”
    “The boat you noticed?” he said to her, nodding his thanks as she delivered his cocoa. “Coast Guard’s routine patrols made note of it because it stayed anchored just offshore for several days. But it was only a guy fishing, they said. Nothing suspicious. No interaction with other craft.”
    “Did they get the name of it?” Dawson asked.
    “ CandyCane .” Headly paused as though waiting for an Ah-ha from one of them. “Nothing?” he asked, looking at her.
    “To my knowledge, Jeremy never did any boating and very little fishing.”
    “Where’s it registered?” Dawson asked.
    “Rhode Island. But to an owner who doesn’t exist.”
    Amelia exchanged a glance with Dawson and when she looked back at Headly, he continued.
    “We don’t know that Jeremy and the CandyCane are connected, and we won’t until we find it. But it fits. It was offshore and in sight of your house for days,