DEAD BY M MIDNIGHT.

by BEVERLY BARTON.

Prologue.

There it was again, that odd sound. It must be the wind. What else could it be? Possibly a wild animal, a racc.o.o.n or possum or even a stray dog. Bears are in hibernation this time of year.

Get hold of yourself. You're imagining things. n.o.body's out there. n.o.body is going to show up here in the middle of the woods in the dead of winter just to frighten you.

Dean's bone-thin hands trembled as he pulled back the gingham curtain from the dirty window and peered out into the darkness. The quarter-moon winked mockingly at him through a thin veil of clouds, as if it knew something he didn't. The cold wind whispered menacingly. Was it issuing him a warning?

Releasing the curtain, he rubbed his hands together, as much to warm them as to control the quivering. He sure as h.e.l.l could use a drink about now. Or something stronger, quicker. But he had learned to settle for strong coffee. A caffeine fix was better than no fix at all. He had been clean and sober for three years and he had no intention of allowing a few stupid letters to destroy his hard-won freedom from drugs and alcohol.

Forget the d.a.m.n letters. They're just somebody's idea of a sick joke.

There were things he should be doing-stoking the fire he'd built in the fireplace, checking supplies, preparing the coffeemaker for morning coffee, bringing in more firewood, putting fresh linens on the twin beds. Dean wanted everything to be in order before his brother got here. Jared, who was driving in from Knoxville where he taught biology at the University of Tennessee, would arrive sometime in the morning, and if all went as planned, they'd spend the weekend here. This was the first time they'd been together at their family's cabin in the Smoky Mountains since they were teenagers.

G.o.d, that had been a lifetime ago. Jared was forty-eight now, widowed, the father to two adult sons. His brother was successful in a way he would never be. Jared lived a normal life, always had and always would. Dean was a failure. Always had been and probably always would be. He'd been married and divorced four times. But he'd done one thing right-to his knowledge he had never fathered a child.

As he lifted the poker from where it was propped against the rock wall surrounding the fireplace, he glanced at the old mantel clock that had belonged to his grandparents. Eleven forty-seven. He should be sleepy, but he wasn't. He had flown in from LA earlier today and had rented a car at the airport.

Jared had sent him the airline ticket. His brother didn't trust him enough to send him the money. In the past, he would have used the money to buy drugs. He couldn't blame Jared. Dean had done nothing to earn anybody's trust. He might be clean and sober, but even he knew that it wouldn't take much to push him over the edge. If something happened, something he couldn't handle, he just might take the easy way out. He always had in the past.

Was receiving death threats something he couldn't handle?

Dean stoked the fire and replaced the poker, then headed toward the kitchen to prepare the coffeemaker. Halfway across the cabin's great room, he heard that pesky noise again. It sounded like footsteps crunching over dried leaves. He stopped dead still and listened.

Silence.

With his heart racing, his palms perspiration-damp and a shiver of uncertainty rippling along his nerve endings, he wondered if he should get his granddad's shotgun out of the closet. His dad had always kept a box of sh.e.l.ls on the overhead shelf in the closet, well out of reach, when he and Jared had been kids. But what were the odds that he'd actually find an old box of sh.e.l.ls?

He should have gone to the police after he received that first letter, but he'd waited, telling himself that each letter would be the last one. Over the past few months, he had received a total of four succinct typed notes. Each one had begun the same way.

Midnight is coming.

What the h.e.l.l did that mean? Midnight came every twenty-four hours, didn't it?

Dean went into the larger of the two bedrooms, the room his parents had shared on their visits here, turned on the overhead light, and opened the closet door. The closet was empty except for a few wire clothes hangers; and there in the very far left corner was his granddad's shotgun. He reached out and grabbed it. Just holding the weapon made him feel safe.

Idiot. The thing's not loaded.

To make sure, he snapped it open and checked. Empty. No sh.e.l.ls. He raked his hand across the narrow shelf at the top of the closet and found nothing except dust. Had he really expected to find a box of sh.e.l.ls?

Dean sighed. But he took the shotgun with him when he returned to the great room and laid it on the kitchen table. He rinsed out the coffeepot, filled it with fresh water, and emptied the water into the reservoir. After measuring the ground coffee into the filter, he set the timer for seven o'clock.

He still needed to bring in more firewood and put clean sheets on the beds. When he'd set his suitcase down on the floor in the second bedroom, the one he and Jared had always shared, he had noticed that the mattresses were bare. He had found the pillows and blankets in the hall linen closet, along with a stack of bed linens. He dreaded the thought of going outside, of getting chilled to the bone and facing his own fears. What if it wasn't an animal walking around out there?

Wait until morning to bring in the firewood.

But was there enough wood to keep the fire going all night?

"There are a couple of kerosene heaters in the shed out back," Jared had told him. "Just don't use them at night. It's safer to keep a fire going in the fireplace."

"Why haven't you put in some other kind of heat?" Dean had asked him.

"Because we hardly ever use the place in the winter. Besides, the boys and I enjoy roughing it, just like you and I did with Dad."

Dad.

Dean didn't think about his father all that often. Remembering how completely he had disappointed his father wasn't a pleasant memory. His parents had loved him, had given him every advantage, and he had screwed up time and time again.

Dean put on his heavy winter coat-the one he had bought for a little of nothing at the Salvation Army thrift store. It was foolish of him to be afraid of the dark, scared to face a racc.o.o.n or a possum, or to think that whoever had written those crazy letters had actually followed him from California to Tennessee and was waiting outside the cabin to kill him.

Dean grunted.

Don't be such a wuss.

He flipped on the porch light and grasped the doork.n.o.b. The moment he opened the cabin door, the frigid wind hit him in the face and sent a shiver through his body. He closed the door behind him and headed toward the firewood stacked neatly on the north side of the front porch. Working quickly, he filled his arms to overflowing.

Dean turned and headed for the front door, then realized he'd have to shuffle his load in order to open the door. But before he could accomplish the task, he heard what sounded a lot like footsteps. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His heartbeat accelerated. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Get a grip, man!

Just as he managed to free one hand and grab hold of the doork.n.o.b, he heard the sound again. Closer. As if someone was walking in the leaves that covered the rock walkway from the gravel drive to the porch.

Dean took a deep breath, garnered his courage, and turned all the way around to confront the intruder. Suddenly, he burst into laughter. A possum scurried across the dead leaves not more than a foot from the porch steps.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," he said aloud as relief flooded his senses.

Still chuckling to himself, he turned back around, opened the front door, and carried the firewood into the cabin, leaving the front door open behind him. He dumped the firewood into the wood box on the hearth and stood up straight. Feeling the cold air sweeping into the house through the open door, he faced forward, intending to walk across the room and close the door. Instead, he froze to the spot. There, standing just inside the doorway, was someone-male or female, he couldn't tell-wearing a heavy winter coat, boots, gloves, and an oddly familiar mask.

"What the h.e.l.l! Who are you?"

Dean tried to rationalize what he saw, but as fast as his mind was working, it didn't work fast enough to make sense of the bizarre sight. Before he could say or do anything else, the person in the mask pulled something from his-or her-coat pocket and aimed it at Dean.

A gun?

The person fired.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Dean reeled as the first bullet pierced his shoulder, and then dropped to his knees when the second bullet ripped into his leg. When the third bullet entered his chest, he heard two things simultaneously-the clock on the mantel striking the hour and the sound of his killer's voice.

"Dead by midnight," the masked murderer said.

Those were the last words Dean Wilson ever heard.

Chapter 1.

Lorie Hammonds slept until nearly eleven and woke with a mild hangover from having drunk too much champagne at Cathy and Jack's wedding. The moment her feet hit the wooden floor, she moaned. It was too d.a.m.n cold for mid-March. As she reached down to the footboard of her bed to retrieve her robe, she danced her toes over the floor searching for her house shoes. Her big toe encountered one of the satin slippers. She slid her foot inside the soft warmth and glanced down to see if she could locate its mate. Only after getting out of bed and bending over to look under the bed did she find her other shoe. As she rounded the end of the bed, her hip accidentally made contact with the edge of the antique, gold metal storage bench.

Cursing softly under her breath, she realized this was probably not going to be a good day. After peeing, washing her hands, and splashing cool water on her face, she avoided glancing in the mirror and went straight down the hall to the kitchen. She checked the coffeemaker to see if she had remembered to prepare it last night. She hadn't. Great. That meant she'd have to wait for her morning pick-me-up. Working hurriedly, she ground the coffee beans, ran tap water through the faucet filter, and got everything ready.

While the coffee brewed, she tried to focus on her usual Sunday-morning routine. Not being a churchgoer, she saved the first day of the week for leisure. Reading the morning newspaper from cover to cover, giving herself a manicure and a pedicure, spending the afternoon lounging in her easy chair with a good book, going to the movies, having dinner out with a friend.

But her best friend-her only true friend in Dunmore-was off on her honeymoon and would be gone two weeks. She didn't begrudge Cathy her happiness, her fourteen glorious days of uninterrupted lovemaking with her new husband. But Cathy's romantic dreams finally coming true only reminded Lorie of the impossibility of that ever happening for her.

Padding through the house to the front door of her 1920s clapboard bungalow located just outside the city limits of downtown Dunmore, Lorie sighed. Romantic dreams didn't come true for women like her. She'd had her one chance at happily ever after and she'd blown it big-time. Just because Cathy had gotten a second chance didn't mean she would.

She opened the front door, scanned the porch, sidewalk, and front yard, and located the Sunday paper hanging precariously between two small azalea bushes. d.a.m.n! It was raining like crazy, had probably set in for the day, and the cold March breeze felt more like a February wind. She shivered as she rushed down the steps, grasped the cellophane-wrapped paper, and ran back into the house.

She could smell the delicious coffee brewing. By the time she peeled off her wet housecoat and gown and put on something warm and dry, the coffee would be ready. After taking a couple of tentative steps down the hall, she stopped, said d.a.m.n, and then turned and went back to the front door. She had forgotten to get Sat.u.r.day's mail out of the box at the end of her driveway. She might as well do that now while she was already soaked.

After retrieving the mail and getting drenched to the skin, Lorie tossed the small stack of envelopes and the Sunday newspaper down on the half-moon table in her tiny foyer before she headed for the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, drinking her first cup of morning coffee, dressed in lightweight fleece lounge pants and a matching pullover, Lorie slipped the newspaper out of its protective cellophane sleeve and took the paper and her unopened mail into the living room. She relaxed in her plush easy chair, placed her feet on the matching ottoman, and scanned the morning headlines. The Life section of the paper was what interested her today. A color wedding photo of her best friend, Catherine Cantrell-no, she was Catherine Perdue now-stared up at her from the wedding announcements page. Cathy had never looked more beautiful.

Tears threatened, reaching Lorie's throat and lodging there. She swallowed hard. Be happy, Cathy. Be happy. You so deserve it. Be happy, Cathy. Be happy. You so deserve it.

And maybe that was the reason she would never be truly happy. Lorie Hammonds didn't deserve to be happy.

She folded back the page and laid the newspaper aside. She would cut out Cathy's picture and then look through the rest of the paper later. As a general rule, Sat.u.r.day's mail was light, even at Treasures of the Past, the antique shop she co-owned with Cathy, but better to go through it now and toss out everything except the bills. She picked up one envelope after another, discarding half a dozen requests from various charities. If she regularly donated to each of these organizations, she would quickly give away her entire paycheck. She laid the one bill-her credit card statement-on the end table. She would write a check tomorrow and mail it off. Sooner or later, she would have to move into the twenty-first century and pay all her bills electronically.

One envelope remained in her lap. She picked it up and looked at it. Her breath caught in her throat.

No, it can't be. Please, don't let it be another one.

Don't jump to conclusions. Just because it looks like the other one doesn't mean it's from the same person.

She flipped over the envelope a couple of times, studying both sides carefully. Her name and address had been printed on a white mailing label. No return name or address.

Just like the other letter.

And just like the first one, it had been mailed from Tennessee, but this one was postmarked Memphis instead of Knoxville.

Lorie ripped open one end of the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of white paper. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the letter. For a half second, her vision blurred as she looked down at the message. Her heartbeat accelerated.

Midnight is coming. Say your prayers. Ask for forgiveness. Get your affairs in order. You're on the list. Be prepared. You don't know when it will be your turn. Will you be the next to die?

Lorie sat there staring at the letter until the words on the page began to run together into an unfocused blur. Her fingers tightened, crunching the edge of the letter. Closing her eyes, she tried to calm her erratic heartbeat.

This letter was identical to the first one she had received a month ago. The original letter had worried her, but she'd been in the midst of preparing for Cathy's bridal showers and upcoming wedding. She had decided it was nothing more than a crank letter from some nut who had nothing better to do with his time. After all, why would anyone want to kill her? It wasn't as if she was rich or famous. And as far as she knew she didn't have any enemies who would go so far as to threaten to kill her.

But here it was-a second letter. A second death threat. Could she simply ignore this one and toss it in the trash as she had the first one?

One really could have been a silly prank.

But two could mean that someone out there wanted, at the very least, to frighten her.

Or did they actually want to kill her?

Mike Birkett poured cereal into three bowls, added milk and blueberries, and set the bowls on the table. His nine-year-old daughter, Hannah, picked up her spoon and dug in while his eleven-year-old son, M.J., curled up his nose as he eyed the berries with disdain.

"Do I have to eat those?" M.J. asked, a slight whine in his voice.

"Yeah," Mike told him. "At least some of them. Okay? Blueberries are good for you."

"Who says?"

"I'll bet it was Ms. Sherman," Hannah said. "I've heard her talking about what she eats-stuff like protein shakes and tofu and soy milk and all kinds of yucky things like that."

"Figures," M.J. mumbled under his breath.

Mike knew that neither of his children especially liked Abby Sherman, the woman he'd been dating the past few months. And he really didn't understand why. Abby had gone out of her way to try to make the kids like her, and she'd been very understanding when they had been rude to her on more than one occasion. What really puzzled him about their att.i.tude was the fact that Abby actually reminded him of his late wife, Molly. It was one of the reasons he'd thought the kids would automatically accept her. Abby had the same cute look that Molly had, with her blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair. She was slender, athletic, and wholesome.

Abby was the sort of person he needed in his life, the type of woman who would make a good wife and mother.

Mike hurriedly wolfed down his cereal and forced himself to eat the blueberries he'd sprinkled on top. When he finished the last bite, he took a sip of his third cup of coffee and found it lukewarm.

"You two hurry up," he told his children. "Sunday school starts in less than an hour. If we're late again this Sunday, Grams will give us all a good scolding."

Since Molly's death nearly four years ago, his mother had stepped in and helped him. He didn't know what he would have done without her. His kids lived with him and he usually managed to get them off to school every morning. But his mother picked them up in the afternoons and looked after them until he came home from work. And whenever his duties as the county sheriff called him away at odd hours, all he had to do was phone his mom. She'd been a lifesaver.

After being up late last night, dancing at his best friend's wedding, he would have liked nothing better than to have slept in this morning and let his mom pick the kids up for Sunday school. But as a single parent, he always tried to set a good example for his son and daughter, going so far as to eat blueberries.

Mike dumped the remainder of his cool coffee into the sink, rinsed out the cup, and left it in the sink along with his bowl and spoon. Glancing out the window, he groaned quietly. He wished the rain had held off for another day. Not only did they have Sunday school and church services this morning, but they were taking Abby out to lunch and then to an afternoon matinee in Decatur.

"I ate all the cereal and some of the blueberries," M.J. said as he dumped a few drops of leftover milk and three-fourths of the blueberries into the garbage.