Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(41)

“Do you have Ms. Wright’s phone number or address?” Lance asked.

Something outside the window caught Mr. Jackson’s attention. He dropped his peeler and carrot, grabbed his cane, and moved toward the back door as fast as he could shuffle.

“What is it?” Lance was on his feet, his body shifting back into ready.

“Damned fox is after my chickens.” Mr. Jackson flung open the back door and rushed out. Tripping on a loose floorboard, he nearly fell on his face.

Lance caught him and set him on his feet. “Let me.”

Morgan followed the men onto the back porch. A flash of orange disappeared into the tall weeds around the property.

“I’m down to twelve hens. A hawk took one last week. She was one of my best layers.” Mr. Jackson leaned on his cane. “I trade with some of my other neighbors. Eggs and vegetables for bread and bacon.”

Morgan couldn’t imagine how he managed to tend his garden and care for his chickens when he could barely walk.

“Your fence is broken. Do you have more chicken wire?” Lance called from the yard.

Mr. Jackson waved toward a shed. Lance crossed the yard and disappeared inside the outbuilding. A few minutes later, he emerged with a roll of chicken wire under one arm and a toolbox in the other. In ten minutes, he’d repaired the break in the fence and checked the rest of the enclosure.

“I used to be strong like that.” Mr. Jackson sighed. “It’s an insult the way your body turns on you as you get old.”

When Lance had finished securing the chickens, he returned to the porch.

“Thank you.” Mr. Jackson went back into the kitchen. He filled a carton with eggs.

“I don’t need payment,” Lance said.

“Give them to Abigail.” Mr. Jackson put the carton in Morgan’s hands. Then he took a piece of paper from a drawer and wrote on it. “This is her address. Tell her I sent you. She’ll be able to tell you more about Crystal.”

“Do you have a phone number?” Lance accepted the paper. “We could call first.”

Mr. Jackson shook his head. “Won’t matter. At this time of day, she’ll be outside working in her garden.” He walked them back to the front door.

Lance and Morgan returned to the Jeep, and Lance headed for the driver’s side. “I’m perfectly calm now. I can drive.”

“All right, but why do you need to drive?” She dropped the keys into his hand.

“I like to be in control,” he admitted.

Which no doubt sprang from having so little of it over his life.

He drove to the address Mr. Jackson had given them. Abigail Wright’s cottage was as perfect as Elijah Jackson’s was dilapidated. A white picket fence enclosed a neat garden rioting with fall blooms. Blue clapboards and white gingerbread trim shone with fresh paint. Purple cabbages lined a brick walkway. Morgan led the way up three wooden steps to the front porch. The wind rocked a white wicker swing on the opposite end of the porch. Two cats ignored them from a sun patch next to the swing.

Holding the carton of eggs, Morgan pressed the doorbell. Standing back, she admired the deep purple of some daisy-type flowers that crowded a flower bed in front of the porch. “These are gorgeous.”

Lance barely glanced at the flowers, but he’d relaxed somewhat since they’d left Mr. Jackson’s house.

No one answered the door, but a red sedan was parked in front of the cottage.

“Let’s try out back. Mr. Jackson said she’d be working outside.” Morgan followed a brick path around the side of the cottage, calling out, “Ms. Wright?”

Lance fell into step beside her.

The late-morning sun took the bite out of the raw wind, warming Morgan’s head and shoulders.

They walked under a trellis. Blue jays splashed in a birdbath next to a stone bench. After the dark and depressing news of the past couple of days, Morgan suppressed the desire to stop, sit, and enjoy the sun on her face for two minutes. They rounded the side of the house and scanned the rear yard for a little old lady.

“Hold it right there!” a voice yelled from a shed fifteen feet away.

Morgan lifted her hands, raising the egg carton in the air. The shed door stood ajar. From the three-inch opening, the double barrel of a shotgun stared them down.

Lance caught Morgan around the waist in a tackle. She hit the ground hard, Lance on top of her, covering her with his larger body. He rolled them behind the stone bench and slid his handgun from its holster.





Chapter Twenty

“Put down the gun!” Lance shouted. He lifted his head, scanning the yard over the bench. He couldn’t see who was inside the shed. The bench was solid and would provide good cover.

Unless the shooter moved . . .

Underneath him, Morgan wheezed. He slid off her body, and she took a deep breath.

The shooting that had ended his police career and almost killed him rushed into his head. Sweat poured from his back and chest, and his heart jumped as if he’d been defibrillated.

Gun in hand, he peered over the stone bench again, his free hand on Morgan’s shoulder, pinning her to the ground. “Keep your head down.”

The sun glinted on the dark metal of the barrel poking out from the slightly open door of the shed.

“Ms. Wright!” Lance shouted. “We just want to talk.”