Wounded Earth by Mary Anna Evans Read Free Book Online Page B

of her bathrobe together at the throat. She felt so exposed.
    * * *
    Babykiller lobbed his phone overboard. The action was wasteful (he knew she didn't have equipment capable of tracing the call—few people did), but he was a conservative kind of guy. It felt good to watch physical evidence of his activities arc over the Intracoastal Waterway and plunge in.
    Incautious men rarely approached his level of accomplishment. He took pride in the fact that he hadn't done an honest day's work since Vietnam. He had used his time there wisely, to make important contacts and establish ties with discreet suppliers.
    During the intervening years, he had considered each step in building a shipping network of people who knew absolutely nothing. Warehouse workers, postal employees, truckers—they all knew what to do when an unmarked package appeared in a prearranged spot, but nobody knew what was in the packages and nobody knew who sent them.
    Babykiller answered to no one, not the mob, not the Colombians, and certainly not to anyone else in his organization. The DEA could wage its War on Drugs until Jesus came back. They would never find him and neither would Larabeth. Not until it was too late.
    * * *
    Cynthia settled her grocery bags on the kitchen counter and checked her answering machine. It was flashing evenly, signaling that it had received only one call. She tapped the button and started putting the groceries away.
    Ms. Parker,
a man's voice began,
this is Brian at the New Orleans office. I'm assuming you've seen today's paper and know about the herbicide spill in Nebraska. The corporate people have pegged you as a likely up-and-comer, so we'd like you to represent BioHeal in Lincoln next week. I apologize for leaving a recorded message about such an important subject, but your boss is out of town and this is late-breaking news and I don't have time to play phone tag. You're booked on a Delta flight early Monday morning out of Augusta. Your assignment is unclear at this point—just show up at the Nebraska Department of Environmental Control in Lincoln and ask for Larabeth McLeod. This could mean a big contract for BioHeal. Good luck.
    Cynthia sat weakly on her kitchen stool. He'd called her an "up-and-comer", whatever that was. It had the ring of success. And he'd asked her to represent the company on a high-profile issue. Even more importantly, he'd used the words "big contract" and those words could make a success of any environmental consultant. She was on her way to bigger and better things—if she performed well.
    As if her nerves weren't already jangling enough, the idea of working directly with Larabeth McLeod made her wish for a stiff drink. To wash down a double dose of Prozac. Dr. McLeod was a walking, talking icon to her employees. She was smart. She was beautiful. She was successful. All the men wanted to marry her and all the women wanted to be her. Or to kill her.
    Cynthia was looking forward to meeting the big boss. She just hoped the legendary Dr. McLeod didn't hear her knees knocking together.
    * * *
    Larabeth had stood, motionless, gazing out her kitchen window for an uncharacteristically long period of time.
Do something. Anything. Don't let this Babykiller brute terrorize you,
said one voice in her head, the calm, competent voice that had guided her through a life fraught with professional success and personal tragedy. It was her own voice and she trusted it.
    I don't know what to do. I'm too scared to even think
, said another voice, one she hadn't heard from in a very long time. It was the voice of a frightened little girl and it was her own voice, too.
    “I need to talk to J.D.,” she whispered out loud, unsure whether she was speaking in the voice of the competent woman or the terrorized child. She dialed the phone and was comforted by the sound of his soft, masculine voice.
    “Babykiller called again.” Larabeth was trying to sound confident and in charge. She could hear that she had succeeded.
    “I