Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set by Nanci Rathbun (reading books for 4 year olds txt) 📕

to hide. So I worked as a freelance bookkeeper for small businesses. Pizza joints, dry cleaners, that kinda thing. Nothing with criminal possibilities. No taverns, no places that sold lottery tickets.”

“It sounds like an okay life,” I said. “How’d you end up in Stevens Point?”

He took a ragged breath. “Thinking about it still makes me sweat. After a couple years, I figured it was past time to make a real life, so I worked out a plan for my death. Moved to the Point, spent a year there as Beltran, used the shelter as cover while I searched for a down-and-outer to die in my name.”

“Willie,” I said. “You didn’t help him along, did you?”

“Nah, nevah!” His Philly origins surfaced in the outrage. “He had a good end, Angie. I didn’t hasten it, honest.” He sighed. “Thought I was real clever, but then you came along.”

“What are the odds you were spotted, all those years ago?” I asked. “They might not know your Wagner identity.” He’d wanted to know about his children. Maybe he still cares. I decided to push. “Marcy still loves you, Hank. She needs to get out of the limbo she’s in, married to a ghost. She wants to talk to you. Maybe you two can work things out. You could join the Witness Protection Program and disappear for good. Marcy and the kids could be part of that package.”

“No!” It was a quiet shout. “It’s not worth the potential danger to Marcy and the kids. I know too much.” He calmed and faced me. “I’d give my right hand for that, but it’s just a pipe dream. You think I’da lived like I did for the last five years if I thought there was a chance? The government won’t protect me unless I testify. I wouldn’t make it to a courtroom alive. Either the Mob would get to me in person, or they’d use my family as a negotiation tool.”

I placed my red-gloved hand on his brown sleeve. “Will you at least talk to her?” I pulled my cellphone from my pants pocket. “I’ll place the call, so it won’t be traced to you.” I waited.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’d like that, to at least tell her good-bye.”

“Good.” I pulled up my Contacts list.

From the woods, a sound like a tree branch breaking resounded. Our heads snapped up. When I looked back to Hank, a dark stain blossomed at the front of the brown monk’s robe. He slowly fell forward onto the snowy path.

My mind took a second to realize that he’d been shot. “Spider, Bram,” I shouted, “Hank’s down. Gunshot to the chest.” Fear screamed at me to run and hide, but I couldn’t leave him there, alone, as his life leaked away. I pulled him into the lee of the grotto and knelt over him, pressing my red gloves to the spreading wetness on his robe. “Hank, stay with me. Help’s on the way.”

He stared at me for a moment and I leaned down to hear him say, “Love.” Then his eyes rolled back.

“I’ll tell them, Hank,” I whispered. I pressed two fingers to his carotid and knew he was gone.

A buzzing sound from the woods refocused my attention as I crouched, far from both the steps to the church’s upper grounds and the lot where my CRX was parked. “I know he did some bad things, God, but he was a good man at heart. Take him home,” I prayed aloud. “And get me, Bram, Spider and Bobbie out of here safe.”

Chapter 23

I'm not helpless. Although help may come, I'm my own rescuer. — Melody Beattie

The stone grotto rose, sturdy and tall, behind me. I sprinted for its chest-high wrought iron fence and levered myself up and over, into the confines of the half-domed grotto and the face of a suffering Jesus being condemned to death. Don’t punch my ticket yet, I prayed, climbing behind the statues, where I gazed on the back of Jesus’ robe.

The buzzing sounded louder. I pulled the 9mm Sig Sauer from my pocket and unfastened the safety. “Spider, Bram, I sure hope you can hear me. Hank’s dead. The shooter’s somewhere in the woods to the east of the grottos. I’m hunkered down in Station 1, at the opposite end of the path from the parking lot.” With the substantial rock surrounding me, I couldn’t judge the direction of the now-louder sound. “I hope it’s one of you guys coming in, and not the shooter,” I said. “My gun is at the ready, so don’t surprise me.”

“It’s Spider, Angie. Hold your fire.” A body in white camouflage hung from the top of the grotto and dropped down into the snow. “You okay?” Spider asked as he extracted a rifle from a sling around his back.

“Thank God,” I whispered. “Yeah, I’m okay. What the hell is going on here?”

“Looks like someone didn’t want Hank to consider his choices. We can’t worry about that now. Tiny Tim’s got Bobbie. We’re going to exfiltrate while Bram provides cover.”

Exfiltrate? Must be Special Ops jargon.

“The sled’s parked in the lee of the wall. I’ll lever you up and over. Then I’ll follow.”

“You came in on a sled?” I struggled to process the data.

Spider crept to each of the side walls of the grotto, positioned the rifle, and darted his head out. “Snowmobile,” he explained as he canvassed the area, then turned back and looked me over. “You’ll need to ditch the red hat and gloves.” He pushed back the hood of his thermal suit and pulled off a knit hat, colored to match the snow camouflage he wore. “Here,” he said. “Not sure what to do about the gloves. I’ll need to keep my hands warm enough to steer.”

I reached inside my coat sleeves for the arms of the white thermal shirt I wore under a sweater. Spider yanked them down further and tied the end of each sleeve. If we got out of this alive, I swore to stop complaining about