was nothing else to be done.
As the dark figure drew closer, Harlan tensed. Something about the shadow seemed familiar. The light flickered on. Harlan gasped. Hell, this was one face he’d gladly spend an eternity never seeing again. Suddenly he wished for one of those horse-faced women to show her face, thinking she might just look pretty damn good right about now.
“What are you doing here?”
Was that weak, shaky voice really his?
“Just checking to see how you’re doing.”
Coming from someone else, he figured that might be true. For this creature, no way. They’d never been close. The only thing they shared was the big secret. Wary, he answered, “Nice of you but not necessary.”
“Oh, but it is necessary. See, one of the Wilde girls is home and delving into old history. Pretty soon she’s going to be asking questions. I can’t afford for her to come and talk to you.”
“I ain’t going to say anything. I kept it a secret for eighteen years. There’s no reason for me to tell her anything.”
“Now that you’re dying, your conscience not bothering you?”
He told himself to lie. Even as drugged as he was, he knew not to show any doubts or vulnerabilities. Before he could come up with something, it must have shown in his face.
The cold-blooded killer of Maggie and Beckett Wilde smiled. “That’s what I thought.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Harlan saw something bright flicker beneath the fluorescent light. Horrified, he watched as a needle was inserted into the IV.
“What … what are you doing?”
“Can’t take the risk of you being alive if she comes to pay you a visit.”
“But … I …,” Harlan sputtered.
“There, there. It’ll all be over soon.”
Harlan’s finger grappled for the call buzzer. If one of those horse-faced nurses walked in the door, it would be the most beautiful sight in the world. He wasn’t ready to die, especially not this way. This was his reward for protecting a secret for eighteen years? Murdered by the killer he had protected? Where was the justice in that?
He watched in bleary-eyed horror as the buzzer was lifted away from his grasp. “Now, now. No sense bothering anybody. These people have better things to do than see to a dying man.”
“You bastard,” Harlan whispered softly. Darkness began to descend but he could swear he heard soft laughter. Was that his murderer or the devil himself? Or were they one and the same?
Closing his eyes for the last time, Harlan floated away, searching for the peace that came with death. On his last breath, he knew peace was not to be his.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
“Chief Tanner!”
At the sound of a woman’s squeal, Zach slammed on his brakes. Seeing Inez Peebles on the sidewalk waving her thin arms to flag him down, he pulled over to the curb and hit the power button to roll down the window of his patrol car. “What’s wrong?”
The oldest citizen and biggest gossip in Midnight leaned into the window. “Did you hear the news?”
Backing away slightly from the strong scent of garlic, Zach said, “What news?”
She leaned in closer, her head almost inside the car. Zach had no choice but to hold his breath. The woman was convinced that eating a clove of raw garlic once a day was the key to a lengthy life. Since she was going on ninety and still walked into town four days a week for her card games, he wasn’t sure she wasn’t right. Didn’t make the smell any easier to take, though.
“Harlan Mosby died last night.”
He hadn’t heard but wasn’t surprised by the news. Last time he’d seen the man, Zach had figured it wouldn’t be long. Ashen-complexioned and bone-thin, Mosby had looked close to death even then.
“I’m real sorry to hear that.”
Inez cackled like a crazed hen. “Now, don’t you be lying just ’cause the man’s finally gone on to hell. Mosby was a mean old fart and the world’s a better place without him.”
Not only did Inez have odd eating rituals, she also believed that reaching ninety years of age gave her the license to say what she thought. She rarely spared anyone’s feelings.
Since he couldn’t deny that Mosby had been a mean old fart, Zach changed the subject. “How’s your son getting along?”
Usually the subject of what she called her “no-account, ungrateful son” was a safe bet. She could complain about him for hours. Today she had more interesting things to discuss. “Guess you heard that Savannah Wilde’s been digging around for information about her parents’ deaths?