few seconds. He was damn sure of that.
Since Archer had faked his own suicide and changed his name, he’d been obsessed with only one thought. Get even. Every day he spent hours in his basement apartment poring over newspapers from the towns of the seven men who had witnessed against him. From the newspaper articles, data collected through the Freedom of Information Act, and various stolen computer files, he compiled a dossier on each man. Eventually he would destroy everything they held dear: their honor, their families, their property. That would teach them to turn on him.
Maybe he’d even kill them. Already convicted of one murder, he’d simply add seven more. In spite of the dank coldness of his unheated basement room, Archer felt himself start to sweat.
During the past few weeks a new element had been added, one he could use to his advantage. Two of his accusers had died in accidents. According to the newspapers, the authorities saw nothing suspicious in the deaths. But the other witnesses to the squadron commander’s murder would suspect that Don Albright—or his ghost—had struck them down for vengeance. He’d be a ghost, all right, a living spirit appearing out of nowhere to haunt them. By the time he was through with them, they’d wish they’d never been born.
Feeling like a caged animal, Archer stopped pacing and sat down in front of his scarred table. Though he didn’t have all the information he needed, he couldn’t let this opportunity pass.
It was time to confront Brian Wade, his principal accuser.
Chapter One
Spokane
With an odd mixture of rage and foreboding, Archer eyed his disguise in the men’s room mirror after his plane landed. The confrontation he’d planned with Brian Wade was risky. He didn’t want anyone to know for sure that he was still alive. But a face-to-face meeting was the only way to judge Wade’s reactions to the accidents. With this disguise added to his changed appearance, he should be able to protect his new identity.
A light brown wig with a big bald spot covered his short black hair. Thick horn-rimmed glasses hid his blue eyes and dark eyebrows. A fine film of white powder turned his emerging beard to a sandy color and gave him a careless, unkempt look. By stooping slightly to camouflage his six-feet height and adding a seedy gray overcoat, Archer guessed he looked twenty years older than his actual thirty-one. If he could only keep his cool, he’d be okay.
From the airport, Archer took a cab to Grand, and walked to a side street a block away from the Cathedral of St. John where Wade had agreed to meet him. Then he waited in the freezing January wind, hands shoved in his pockets, until he saw Wade’s green Buick park between piles of snow on E Street.
Wade, a fringe of red hair showing beneath his uniform hat, buttoned his overcoat as he locked his vehicle and started across the street toward the cathedral. Feeling his anger, Archer forced himself to subdue it.
What would his old buddy say when he heard two of Albright’s accusers had been killed in accidents? Though the deaths occurred in other cities, Wade might have heard of them. Would he suspect Don Albright was responsible—in retribution for last year’s murder conviction?
As far as Archer could determine, nobody was following Wade.
Still, he watched for a full ten minutes before leaving his hiding place behind a parked car. It was quiet on the street. On this frigid holiday afternoon, few pedestrians were willing to brave the biting wind and hard-packed snow on the sidewalks.
It was time to go. Archer sucked in his breath and concentrated on keeping his expression carefully neutral. Wade mustn’t see his festering rage. Stooping, he assumed a limp and moved slowly down the side street and across Grand. Wade glanced toward him but didn’t move from his position on the sidewalk in front of the cathedral.
Archer saw no recognition in Wade’s eyes as he approached.
“Captain Wade?” Archer asked.
“Yes. Are you Mr. Dillon?” While speaking, Wade turned his head sideways so he wouldn’t be facing into the biting wind.
Archer pulled his hand out of his pocket and shoved it toward Wade. “I’m Glenn Dillon, Captain Wade.” It was a false name to protect his new identity.
Wade shook Archer’s hand without removing his glove. His round face was tinged with crimson in the bitter cold.
“Just who the hell are you, Dillon?” Wade spit out the question in his raspy tenor voice. “What’s your interest in this case?”
“It’s to your advantage to talk to me,” Archer shot back. “That’s all you need to know.” He affected the same accent he’d used yesterday on the telephone when he made the appointment.
“Let’s hear your big news, Dillon.” Lifting his glove, Wade glanced down at his watch. “This better not take long. My wife and I have plans for the evening.”
“It won’t take long, Captain.” Archer pictured Susan Wade in his mind from the photographs he’d studied. Long gold-blond hair, brown eyes, sturdy frame. Mrs. Wade, an air force lieutenant, was the intelligence officer in Wade’s squadron. Though Archer had never met her, he’d known who she was when she answered the phone yesterday. They’d married only four months ago.
Poor woman, Archer had thought at first, aware of Wade’s many affairs. But then Archer had learned they’d known each other only five or six weeks before they married. If she was that impulsive, maybe they deserved each other.
“Well?” Wade asked, obviously irritated at Archer’s silence.
“The matter concerns two of the men who were witnesses to Captain Albright’s murder of your squadron commander last year—” Archer spoke slowly, dragging out the suspense. “The two who were transferred from Spokane to San Antonio and Colorado Springs.”
“What about them?” Wade asked tersely. Ignoring the wind, he leaned toward Archer, his eyes narrow.
“Did you know they both died in accidents recently?”
Wade muffled his quick intake of breath. Archer sensed rather than heard it.
“The police say the deaths were accidental, but I don’t believe it.” He paused, enjoying the momentary look of fright on Wade’s loathsome face. “How about you, Captain? Don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence?”
Archer felt Wade staring at him, and deliberately turned away so the other man wouldn’t see the hatred in his eyes.
“What’s it to you, Dillon?” Wade asked, his eyes accusing. “You’re starting to sound like a nosy private detective. Who the hell are you working for?”
“Nobody you know,” Archer returned, expecting the question. “I’m sure you’re not surprised that the case has attracted high-level attention.”
Wade’s face was carefully devoid of expression. “You think the accidents were arranged—that those men were killed—because of what happened last year?” His answer was cold, noncommittal, in the tone of a man used to hiding his emotions. But in spite of the keening wind, Archer heard a tiny tremor in his voice. Whether Wade had known about the accidents or not, Archer suspected that talking about them made him nervous.
“Damned
