Thread of Revenge: The Joe Tyler Series, #6

Books by Jeff Shelby

The Joe Tyler Novels

THREAD OF HOPE

THREAD OF SUSPICION

THREAD OF BETRAYAL

THREAD OF INNOCENCE

THREAD OF FEAR

THREAD OF REVENGE

The Noah Braddock Novels

KILLER SWELL

WICKED BREAK

LIQUID SMOKE

DRIFT AWAY

The Moose River Mysteries

THE MURDER PIT

LAST RESORT

ALIBI HIGH

FOUL PLAY

YOU'VE GOT BLACKMAIL

––––––––

The Deuce Winters Novels (Under the pseudonym Jeffrey Allen)

STAY AT HOME DEAD

POPPED OFF

FATHERS KNOWS DEATH

Short Story Collections

OUT OF TIME

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ONE

Elizabeth was kicking.

I was in the last row in the bleachers, the highest point in the stands on the west side of the track. If I'd turned around, I would've seen the edge of the ocean on the other side of the Coronado High School campus, and a hint of the sandy coast. I couldn't take my eyes off the track, though, because my daughter was racing.

It was the last lap of the 1600, the event Elizabeth had settled into once she'd convinced herself that track was going to be her thing. And she hadn't been wrong. From the outset, she'd shown a knack for finding her pace, waiting to make her move, and then finishing strong. She'd won the 1600 in all but one of her league meets, and now she was in the county sectional finals against the best field of competition she'd seen all year.

She'd hovered near the middle of the pack on the first two laps, making sure she had enough space to avoid stray heels and elbows, then surged halfway through the third, moving in behind the leader, a girl that had thus far ran the fastest 1600 time in San Diego County that season. Elizabeth hadn't been near the other girl's finishing times and we knew it would be a stretch to beat her. She felt confident, though, for two reasons. The sectionals were being held at her school, so she was on her home track, the place she felt most comfortable. And she had nothing to lose, because she knew no one was expecting her to win.

But now they were coming around the final turn and Elizabeth started her kick early, striding out, closing the gap between herself and the frontrunner, like she'd thrown a lasso around the girl and was reeling her in.

The athletes on the infield rushed to the near side of the field as the girls came around the turn, screaming and cheering them both as they pulled away from the rest of the runners. Elizabeth was on the other girl's elbow with a hundred and fifty meters to go. Perfect position.

I stood, my heart pumping, and screamed, Go now, kid! Go now!

Just like she'd heard me, she slid to the outside and pulled even with the other girl. The kids on the infield screamed louder, jumping up and down, exhorting both girls. The other girl strained, her jaw setting tight, her stride getting longer and desperate, her arms coming unglued from her sides, her eyes flitting toward Elizabeth.

Elizabeth stayed relaxed, her stride even and strong, her legs solid, her arms pumping smoothly and pulling her along, her eyes locked on the finish line.

With fifty meters left, she inched in front.

The infield vibrated with noise.

I made some unintelligent noise, a half scream, half cheer, and stomped my foot against the bleacher.

At twenty-five meters, she was a body length in front of her only competition, and the other girl wilted, her gait tying up, going ragged and unsteady, knowing she'd been beaten.

Elizabeth ran harder, sprinting for the line, the same way she did when we raced at the end of our runs, seeing who could reach our driveway first.

It was always her.

She raised her arms as she crossed the line first and I was louder than any of her teammates.

She turned like she always did, her hands on top of her head, and found me in the stands, her chest heaving, a bewildered, exhausted smile on her face. I pointed right at her and clapped. She laughed, clearly stunned at what she'd done, and then was swallowed up by her exuberant teammates.

Tears welled in my eyes and my heart thumped. I stood there, as proud of her as I'd ever been, knowing how hard it had been to convince her that she had talent, and how hard it had been for her to make herself vulnerable to something she might fail in. To everyone in the stands, the ones who didn't know her story, she was just a girl who'd beaten the best girl in the county. But I knew how much she'd really beaten.

That was some run, a guy to my left said. That's your daughter, right?

I'd been oblivious to everyone around me, but I knew the guy hadn't been there at the start of the race. He was about my height, with short, dark hair and dark sunglasses over his eyes. He had on gray dress slacks and a tight-fitting, red golf shirt over a body of compact muscle. He held a manila envelope in his hand.

It is, I said.

Mr. Tyler, I'm Louis Beltran, he said, extending his hand. I apologize for being late.

I shook hands. No problem. Thanks for meeting me here.

I'd gotten a call the day before the meet from Louis Beltran. He was representing a local company that was interested in hiring someone to train and oversee their security people. He'd been a bit vague about the company, preferring to talk in person. I'd been looking for something a little more stable and a little closer to home, so the fact that he was local was a plus. But the fact that he'd wanted to meet during Elizabeth's meet was a non-starter for me. Lauren was swamped with work and already had something scheduled that she couldn't move. I hadn't missed a single meet all season, and there was no way we were both going to miss the biggest one of the year.

When Beltran suggested coming to me, I told him that was fine as long as he didn't mind meeting on metal bleachers and as long as he agreed to no conversation during my daughter's race. He'd readily accepted those terms and had apparently waited until Elizabeth was done to approach me.

I gestured at the track. And now you know why I wasn't available to come to you.

Beltran nodded. She can run, he observed, smiling as his gaze shifted to the track. Didn't think she had a shot to close that gap at the end.

She's worked hard, I said. Pride swelled within me again. She's gotten stronger as the season has gone on.

Evidently. He turned to look at me, the smile still fixed on his face. Congratulations.

Thanks, I said, then gestured at the metal bleacher. Have a seat.

He hitched up his pants and sat. I do appreciate you taking the time today. I know I didn't give you much notice, but...well, we are in a bit of a hurry, I guess you could say.

I nodded. I understand. I appreciate you being flexible.

His smile widened, and his white teeth flashed in the sunshine. Of course. I'm hoping this won't take much of your time. He tapped the envelope against his thigh. I've put what we're looking for right here. Figured you could take a quick look and see if it holds any interest.

I nodded.

He handed me the envelope.

It was an old style envelope, the kind that fastened with string instead of a prong. I unspooled the red thread that clasped the envelope shut but paused before emptying the contents. I glanced toward the field. Elizabeth was jumping up and down with another girl, her ponytail bouncing. Still celebrating.

I smiled. It was good to see her happy. Not that she'd been unhappy, but to see her so carefree, so in the moment, made me think we were finally settling into our new normal.

The thread came undone and I reached inside the envelope, searching. My fingers wrapped around a single sheet of paper that felt too heavy for paper. I pulled it out and I realized I was looking at the backside of an 8 x 10 photograph.

I looked at Beltran.

He adjusted his glasses and smiled, but it was different this time. Smug. Knowing. Like he already knew what my reaction was going to be.

I flipped the photo over.

And an invisible sledgehammer smashed into my gut.

TWO

I take it you recognize the man in the photo? Beltran asked.

I couldn't nod or say anything, my eyes transfixed on the photograph in my hand. The picture had been taken with a telephoto lens from a distance. The black and white was somewhat grainy, but there was enough definition to make out the face. The man was in a strip mall, walking through a parking lot. In the background, I could see a sign for a real estate company, but the words were blurry. The subject was peering back over his shoulder, almost as if he was checking to see if he was being followed.

If only he'd known.

Mr. Anchor said he was certain you'd recognize him, Beltran said. He cleared his throat. He doubted that there would be any confusion.

Anchor's name was another smash to my gut. I managed to peel my eyes from the picture and look toward the infield. Elizabeth was pulling on a long sleeve green T-shirt. Two girls stood next to her: teammates. One was chugging a water bottle and the other was pointing down toward the opposite side of the track.

Mr. Tyler? Beltran said. You do recognize the man in the photograph, correct? I have others if—

I recognize him, I said. My voice sounded hoarse.

Beltran nodded. Excellent. Good to hear. Did you take notice of the date stamp on the photo?

I forced my eyes back to the picture and scanned it quickly. In the bottom right hand corner, I could see that the photo had been taken two days earlier.

Of course, those things can always be faked, Beltran said. But I'm sure you realize that I wouldn't be here if the date wasn't real.

Who are you? I said, through clenched teeth.

Louis Beltran, he said. His grin shifted, and he suddenly looked like he was chatting up an old friend. I'm an acquaintance of Mr. Anchor's. Actually, I guess I should say employee. He and I have been friends for years, but today, I suppose I'm acting as an employee.

I swallowed hard. For three months, I'd feared this exact moment. I’d woken up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, imagining this exact scenario. I’d fought back nausea and panic attacks and wondered if I’d made the right decision.

But this wasn't a dream and I was wide awake.

And I knew I was in trouble.

Can you please tell me the name of the man in the photograph? Beltran asked. His hand rested on his thigh and he drummed his fingers lightly against the soft gray fabric as he waited for my response. So I can confirm we are on the same page? I need to know this before we can move forward.

Move forward? I asked.

He pointed at the photo. Mr. Tyler. Please. Can you confirm the identity of the individual in the photograph?

He knew I could. He wouldn't have gone through the whole sham of setting up an appointment with me, pretending to be a potential client, if he hadn’t already known that.

But he needed to hear me say it.

I handed the photo back to him, trying to keep my hand steady but failing.

It's Patrick Dennison.

THREE

We identified Mr. Dennison approximately five days ago, Louis Beltran said.

He’d abandoned any pretense of friendliness and had settled into business mode. But I was still reeling.

How did you...locate him? I asked.

We have the ability to watch a lot of different places, Beltran answered. It came to our attention that he was still alive when we, in fact, thought he was not.

I noted that he was no longer referring to himself as just an acquaintance of Anchor's, but was now apparently admitting he was part of Anchor's organization. I wondered if he was contracted or some sort of quasi-peer of Anchor's.

You understand why that was surprising, correct? Beltran asked. Mr. Anchor said that you'd understand.

I watched Elizabeth sit down on the grass with several of her teammates. She looked comfortable and at home with them, snacking on granola bars, still talking and laughing. She looked like she belonged, like a normal kid. She wasn’t the kid who’d been kidnapped years ago, the kid who looked like she was still struggling to settle back into her old life. She was doing well in her classes, she had friends, and she was genuinely enjoying the track season. She'd just run the best race of the season and qualified for the state championships. She was happy, and she was finding her place in the world.

And she was home.

I couldn't just kill him in cold blood, I finally said. It didn't feel right.

Someone could've argued that that statement was at odds with other things I'd done, but in my head, they were as different as night and day.

But it did feel right making the deal with Mr. Anchor, I assume, Beltran said. And then telling him that you'd completed the task.

I said nothing.

I'll assume the fact that now that there are consequences to deal with, you aren't surprised, Beltran said.

Surprised wasn't the right word. Ever since I'd let Patrick Dennison walk into Mexico, I'd been worried. I knew that not keeping my word to