his position within the hospital hierarchy. She’d looked good on his arm and most importantly, been docile, easily intimidated and absolutely enamored with him and the life-style that marriage to him would afford her.
He hadn’t factored into his decision that her hellcat twin sister was a cop.
A cop. A sensation akin to panic settled in the pit of his gut. He had been so careful—about the women he chose, where he found them.
Not about all the women he chose. He had made mistakes.
He crossed to his desk and sank into his chair, only then allowing his guard to slip. Cops had a way of sniffing things out. What if his sister-in-law started snooping around asking questions of his previous colleagues and employer? Charleston was a lot smaller than Charlotte, people talked. What might she be able to dig up? Who might she be able to dig up?
Boyd fought the panic off. Melanie May was a two-bit cop from a municipality the size of the average shopping mall. How much harm could she do?
He snorted with disgust. None. Melanie May was no more dangerous to him than a mall cop.
14
Fate was a fickle creature. Sometimes it smiled on those least worthy, protected those deserving punishment, while turning its back on the good and the meek.
Not so Death. Death was just. Evenhanded. Death relied not on whimsy or chance but on forethought and planning. On righteousness.
The time had come. For this man, like the others, to pay. For crimes unpunished. For sins against the weak. Against those for whom justice was an empty promise.
Death emerged from the shadow cast by the restaurant and crossed the parking lot, heading toward the row of fruit trees that lined the lot’s back edge. The trees were in full bloom, the blossoms a delicate white, fragrant. There, parked under a canopy created by their branches, the man’s car waited.
Death reached the automobile and paused to breathe in the heavenly scent. To enjoy. The scent, yes. But the moment as well. The moment of victory over evil, goodness over might.
The time had come.
As was the man’s habit, he had left the car’s windows partially lowered. A dangerous habit when parked so near such sweet flowers. Foolhardy. Especially if one had an allergy to bee venom. Especially if a single, unexpected sting at an inopportune time might cause the throat to close, the blood pressure to drop, the heart to eventually stop.
Death carried a small, white bag—the kind used to bring home take-out food or bakery items. One printed with the name and logo of the restaurant behind him. From inside the bag came an angry hum. Death’s messengers demanding release. Retribution.
“Soon,” Death murmured, unfolding the bag’s top and quickly tossing it through the car’s rear, driver-side window. It hit the edge of the seat, then tumbled to the floor. The bag opened fully and Death’s small but potent messengers came forth.
15
Melanie swung into the strip-mall parking lot, took the first available spot she came upon, hurriedly collected her purse and duffel bag, then climbed out of the car. The night air was slightly balmy, an indication that spring had more than arrived.
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