Wounded Earth by Mary Anna Evans Read Free Book Online

The sheer size of it startled even him.
    And now they had a couple of real, live Vietnam veterans—and competent ones, too—planted in their organization by Babykiller himself. These two guys, backed by enough firepower and by personnel they had trained themselves, would be able to fulfill their mission easily. The general and most of his bunch wouldn't likely survive the showdown that would ensue when Babykiller doublecrossed them, but he didn't waste any energy grieving for them.
    It wouldn't be long before it was all over. He would have his revenge, or at least the beginnings of it. And he would have something more. He would have Larabeth right where he wanted her.
    * * *
    It had been two days since the phone calls and the break-in and the green water. Denial was an important human defense tactic and Larabeth was using it. She was considering the possibility that the crank calls were random, that the sabotage of her kitchen sink was a sick prank, and that her home was once more a refuge. Perhaps she had overreacted.
    Perhaps. But she still jumped when the phone rang. A shiver still lingered between her shoulder blades when she answered it. Phone calls were exciting these days. Babykiller could be on the other end of the line. If not Babykiller, then perhaps J.D. She'd had years to regret the things she said to J.D.
    Larabeth had missed J.D. for a very long time.

Chapter 4
     
    Larabeth ordinarily slept late on Saturdays, even when she planned to go in to the office. Somehow, the little indulgence of lounging an extra hour forestalled that I-hate-working-on-weekends feeling. Stretching the indulgence strategy a bit further, she wrapped herself in a huge, soft robe and shuffled into the kitchen.
    It was nice to be able to sit around in her nightclothes for awhile. She was glad J.D. had only felt the need to sleep on her couch a couple of nights. He had helped her select a security system and overseen its installation, and she appreciated his efforts, but she enjoyed her privacy.
    Besides, she hadn't heard from Babykiller since her break-in on Wednesday. Maybe the kook had been looking for an easy victim, someone who would cry and beg when he made his threats. If so, maybe Babykiller—whoever he was—had decided he'd be better off harassing someone more cooperative.
    Larabeth poked around in the fridge. An omelet sounded good to her, but she sacrificed herself on the altar of cholesterol and used prepackaged almost-eggs. Maybe on her birthday she'd let herself add bacon and cheese, but not today.
    She set her plate down and spread the newspaper across the table. The omelet was good, even if the so-called eggs had never been within five miles of a chicken.
    A color photograph, situated in the dead-center front-page position, caught her eye. Withered brown corn stretched toward the horizon, with a few green patches poking audaciously above the devastation. Two sheriff's deputies stood in the foreground, flanking a stocky, balding man. The headline read: TENS OF THOUSANDS OF ACRES OF NEBRASKA FARMLAND DEVASTATED BY VIETNAM-ERA HERBICIDE.
    The deputies stood impassive, but the third man's face was haggard and tear-streaked. Larabeth assumed at first that he was the property owner until she read the photograph's caption: Mr. Mac MacGowan (center), one of the cropdusting pilots involved, was held for questioning in the incident.
    Larabeth grabbed her calendar and began taking notes. The article estimated the volume of Agent Blue distributed and the acreage of land affected. She made herself a note to check the distance from the affected areas to a major water body and to look up the names of key staffers in Nebraska's environmental agency.
    She felt like an ambulance chaser, but herbicide cleanup was her bread-and-butter—especially Agents Orange, Blue, White, and their multicolored kin. If this incident resulted in widespread contamination, somebody would have to clean it up. Larabeth intended for that somebody to be BioHeal.