Free Don't Say a Word by Beverly Barton Page A

truck. He stepped down from the cab, checked the lock on the inside door for signs of tampering, and then entered the back hallway. He listened for any sounds but heard only the loud clicking of claws on the red-oak hardwood floor as his three dogs scrambled to get to him. Somebody had dumped two of them out on the road near his gate and he’d picked them up, fed them, and they’d been with him ever since. Spot and Rover, both lovable little twelve-inch beagles, were always glad to see him, no matter what kind of mood he was in. Kneeling down, he petted the hysterically baying beagles, rubbing their ears the same as he had Julia’s beloved Jasper. He knew how she felt. He loved his dogs, too.
    At the end of the hallway, his other dog finally showed up. His mother’s haughty and fairly maniacal white miniature poodle. Afraid it would be bitten by a scorpion at her desert home, she had asked Will to keep the prissy little dog where she’d be safe. The other dogs tolerated her and so did Will, but just barely. The shrill yap sometimes put him on edge, but she was a good watchdog because she hated everything and was more than vocal about it. As if she was doing him a favor, she ambled up to him and waited for him to acknowledge her. He picked her up, his palm cradling her little chest, and she pushed up against his fingers when he scratched her ears.
    After a moment, he put her down and checked out the house, the three canines clicking around in his wake. Once he was satisfied there were no signs of illegal entry or intruders, he unbuckled his hip holster and placed it and his nine-millimeter on the brown granite island in the large kitchen. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the pool and the lake beyond. He loved it out here, where it was quiet and wooded and private, where he could think and safely let down his guard.
    Inside the fridge he found some deli ham and cheese left over from the night before, and he made a sandwich, slopped on enough mayo to make it worth it, pulled out a Bud Light, and took the food out on one of the decks overlooking the lake. Dusk was falling. The heat was letting up some, now that the sun was down. He slapped at a mosquito on his arm; they’d be out in full force soon. His orders were to form a task force. He needed to think about the case, think about what kind of person could have committed such a horrendous crime. Severed tongues were not run-of-the-mill mutilations. This was a case that was going to be messy, dangerous, and he had a distinct feeling they’d only found the first body out of God-knows-how-many to come.
    Again he found his thoughts wandering back to Julia Cass. The way he understood it, she’d been lead on most of her cases in Nashville, but she’d pulled back today, giving him complete authority and waiting for his direction. They could work well together. He liked women like her, women who were cool and calm and smart. The fact that she looked like Catherine Zeta-Jones didn’t hurt, either. And hell, a woman who liked dogs was always a good thing. He’d always had dogs himself. He caressed Spot’s head. Rover was on the deck with his tennis ball, waiting for him to throw it. Both were good little watchdogs and loved to run the rabbits and squirrels in the woods on his property, and the poodle yipped and carried on if Will looked at her sideways. Here in Tennessee, they were his only family.
    Right now he had to think about the murder. Lockhart was a federal judge, for God’s sake, and he’d been mutilated in his own backyard in the middle of an exclusive neighborhood of Chattanooga. This was no simple break-in and murder, no house invasion, no robbery gone wrong. This was a targeted killing with a definite message put out for investigators to decipher. Half a tongue balancing stacks of dimes on a scale. ONE written in blood. They had to figure out what it all meant. Julia Cass already thought it was the work of a serial