Cover Your Eyes (Morgans of Nashville 1)

He shoved manicured hands into his pockets. He jangled loose change. “I have asked God for forgiveness.”

“Is that all it takes? If I were to ask God to wipe away my sins would that be enough?”

“Baby, you hurt those women.”

“Hurt, no. Killed, yes. And I liked it.”

Color drained from his face. “My God, Baby.”

Baby raised a finger to smiling lips. “It can be our secret.”

He straightened his shoulders, clearly already assessing the fallout of this confession. His eyes sharpened with ambition. “You expect me to keep this secret?”

“I’ve never told your secret. Lots of times I could have told but I never did. Reasonable you can keep mine.”

“Baby, I can’t keep this quiet. I can’t.” His hand trembled when he shoved tense fingers through his hair. He took a step back. “Why?”

“To punish you. To show you who is really important to you.”

Disgust contorted features made smooth by Botox. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“I don’t believe you.” Baby had expected him to be upset. No one liked to be punished. But this punishment was in his best interest. Soon he’d see and he’d be grateful.

Revulsion darkening his features, he pointed a finger trembling with retribution. “You are the devil.”

His anger wasn’t unexpected. “You gonna tell?”

“Yes.”

He’d never tell. He didn’t have the nerve to risk endangering his empire. “The world will find out about you.”

“So be it.”

“You are Satan!” The hatred and conviction resonating from the pastor’s voice stung like rejection. Baby’s heart constricted with sadness and anger. “You never really loved me, did you? You called me your Baby but you didn’t really mean it.”

He jerked as if backhanded. “God loves all sinners, but I cannot accept what you’ve done.”

The hate twisting around Baby’s heart tightened its stranglehold. “Did you ever love me?”

“You are a monster. How could I love that?”

“I’m not a monster! You are the monster!” Shock and sadness pulsated under the words. “Sugar.”

He flinched. “Don’t call me that!”

His fear offered some solace. “But you like the name.”

“Stop!” He backed up several steps as if all the secrets of his past had scurried out of the darkness like rats and swarmed at his feet.

Baby’s hand tightened on the handle of the thirty-eight. “Don’t walk away from me!”

“We are done!”

Fury had Baby’s index finger sliding to the trigger of the thirty-eight revolver. “I thought you’d see who truly loves you. I have your best interests at heart!”

He shook his head as he slowly turned to face Baby. Tears glistened in his eyes. “You are insane.”

Baby removed the revolver and stared at it as if it were strange and wondrous. “I’m not a monster. I’m not insane. You love me. You are glad I showed you your sinful ways. Say it.”

Gary held out his hands, his gaze riveted to the gun. “Baby, where did you get that?”

Baby pointed the gun at his chest. “Doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Give it to me,” he said, his voice clear and direct as if he were the one with the gun.

“No.” Baby pulled back on the trigger and the gun fired, striking Gary directly in the heart. Crimson bloomed on his white shirt and he stood for a moment, stunned. He dropped to his knees and then fell face forward on the floor. Blood pooled under his chest and oozed out onto the carpeted floor.

Baby pocketed the gun and for a moment stared, dumbstruck as if watching a movie. “Pastor Gary?”

When he didn’t move, Baby’s anger melted into puddles of regret. “Pastor Gary, I didn’t mean to shoot you. You made me mad. You can get up now. The punishment is over.”

A small gurgling sound emanated from his chest as the last breath he’d ever take seeped from his lungs. “Pastor Gary?”

Baby’s hand trembled as tears welled. “Wake up!”

Pastor Gary lay lifeless, the gurgling fading to silence.

Baby wept.

April 15

Sugggar,

Twinkle, twinkle little star . . . I wish you could love me. Twinkle, twinkle little star . . . I wish I didn’t hate you.

A.

Chapter Nineteen

Friday, October 21, 6 AM

Deke parked behind the three marked cars with flashing lights on Taylor Road, bordering the Cumberland River. Trucks backed up to bays loaded with dirt and gravel and beyond that a ribbon of trees buffered the property from the river. A long brick building was located on the property next to an abandoned field and a metal shed had long ago collapsed under the weight of age and rust. A peeling blue water tower stood tall, empty.

At the crime scene, Deke strode toward the uniform. “Deke Morgan. Why the call?”

The uniformed officer’s crisp brown shirt accentuated a long lean build. “Found the body of a CI that might be of interest to you.”

“Who?”

“Max Quincy.”

Deke drew in a breath. “Where?”

“The body is by the river.”

Dirt and crushed stone crunched under his feet as he followed the uniform toward the green brush. They picked their way through thick underbrush, the scent of the river growing stronger as they travelled. The woods stopped feet from the muddy shores of the Cumberland. Yellow crime-scene tape blocked access to the final remaining feet. Max lay on the shore, faceup, eyes open and his blue mouth agape.

He pulled rubber gloves from his back pocket. The scent of death was foul, as it often was with victims pulled from the water.

“Where is Forensics?”

“On the way. It’s been a crazy morning and they are scrambling. And this guy, well, he wouldn’t be the first drunk to end up in the water.”

Deke studied the configuration of the body, which had all the hallmarks of a body adrift in the water. “Any sign of trauma?”

“I checked when I first arrived. No gunshots or ligature marks. I pulled up his rap sheet on my computer. He was released a couple of days ago from jail. His latest arrest was for drugs. My guess, he either stumbled too close to the water and fell in or pissed off the wrong person.”

Deke would have agreed with the scenario a week ago. But Max had been his father’s CI and he’d been the key witness in the Jeb Jones case. He was another severed link to the thirty-year-old murder case. “Call Forensics and have them get here sooner rather than later.”

The uniform rested his hands on his hips. “What’s the rush?”

The skin on the back of Deke’s neck tightened as it had during his undercover days minutes before a buy went bad. Something was off about this. Wrong on more levels than he could articulate. “This guy didn’t fall in the river or screw up a drug deal. He’s linked to the Annie Dawson case.”

His cell rang. “Morgan.”

“Deke, it’s Rick.”

“What do you have?” A man of minimal words, his brother called when he had real news.

“Digging through those files and saw the name Beth Drexler. She was Annie’s roommate. She died in a car crash ten years ago.”

“Okay.”

“Her first husband was Pastor Gary Wright.”

“The boyfriend who had a crush on Annie?”

“So it seems. Beth was also the sister of Kate Tilden, his secretary for the last thirty years.”

His mind wove connections. “Gary could be Sugar.”

“He’s the right age. He also had a lot to lose if the affair with Annie was discovered.”