What's in a Name? Read online

  WHAT’S IN A NAME?

  By

  Terry Odell

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * * *

  Copyright © 2011 by Terry Odell

  Cover art by Jason Odell

  *****

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  To Dan, who thought it was "cute" when I started to write.

  What’s In a Name?

  Terry Odell

  Chapter One

  The thud from the front porch was definitely a knock.

  Kelli Carpenter jumped, clutching the plastic shower curtain to keep from slipping. “Just a minute,” she called as she reached across the cascading spray to twist off the taps. So much for the hot, steamy shower she’d been dreaming about while she lay, freezing her butt off in a stinking mud puddle, waiting for the perfect shot. She squirmed back into her grimy jeans.

  From the road, she heard the distinctive roar of Harley engines. The knock repeated, growing more insistent.

  “Take it easy,” she muttered. Without bothering to towel off, she slipped her sweatshirt over her head, working her damp arms into muddy sleeves while she headed for the door, her mind racing through the possibilities of who would be there. Only park rangers ever came by. But they wouldn’t pound unless something was wrong. And if they did, they’d call her name. The familiar fear gnawed at her belly. Had someone found her?

  Shit. She’d forgotten her contacts and although she doubted any of the rangers would notice—or care—she hadn’t survived as Kelli Carpenter this long by neglecting the details. She hurried back to the bathroom and inserted the lenses, turning her pale gray eyes into a nondescript brown and grabbed her oversize tortoiseshell-framed glasses. “Coming!” She hurried through the living room and peered through the window.

  Her stomach flipped at the sight of a total stranger on her porch. Hardly anybody knew about this field station, tucked away in the mountains of Washington state. Behind him, she caught a glimpse of a gray pickup truck, the one that had pissed her off by hugging the center line when she’d driven home.

  Calm down. He’s lost and wants directions. Tell him what he needs and he’ll be gone.

  “Yes?” she called through the door, trying to remember if she’d locked it.

  “I’m looking for Kelli Carpenter,” a deep male voice said.

  Kelli. Not Casey. Okay. She inched the door open. Swallowed. Twice. A man waited on her porch, wearing jeans and a windbreaker over a black turtleneck, holding an olive-green duffel bag. He stood at least six-two, with black hair that hung almost to his shoulders, and a five o’clock shadow at least two days old.

  “I’m Kelli.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. Dark chocolate brown, they grabbed and wouldn’t let go. He stared, a little longer than necessary and she crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly all too aware her bra lay on the bathroom floor.

  She took a step backward into the dimmer light of the living room. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing.” His startled expression dissolved into neutrality. “I…um…I suppose I’d expected a man.” He took half a step forward.

  Avoiding his eyes, she took a deep breath and managed a quick smile. “Can I help you with something?”

  He dropped his duffel and extended a hand. “Sorry. I’m Blake Windsor. I’m here to repair a dormitory cabin. If you’ll point me to my room, I can put my stuff away and take a look before it gets dark.”

  She ignored the offer of a handshake and suppressed a shudder at the thought of a stranger invading her home. “I’m afraid there must be some mistake. There’s no room for you to stay here.”

  He raised an eyebrow and looked beyond her. “I can take the couch. No problem. Jack Stockbridge said you’d be expecting me.”

  Her mind whirled. Because he knew her boss’s name didn’t mean he was legit. Camp Getaway was hardly a secret project. A ripple of fear crept up her scalp. The way he looked at her when she opened the door, like he was studying her, and not in a man-woman way. A man hadn’t looked at her like that in a long time, but not so long she didn’t recognize the difference. Had someone connected her to Robert after all these years? No. If they had, that man on the porch would be here with handcuffs, not a duffel bag.

  “I haven’t heard from Jack Stockbridge, and I’m sure he’d have told me if someone was coming.” Don’t antagonize him. She kept her tone civil. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Windsor, but I suggest you start down the mountain. These roads can be tough to navigate in the dark.”

  The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted. She twisted her head toward the kitchen. Should she answer the call there, where she could keep an eye on this stranger? Or take it in her office, where it was private? But that would leave this man free in her space. She waited for the answering machine.

  Jack Stockbridge’s voice floated across the room. “Kelli? Jack. Are you back? If you’re there, Kiddo, pick up.”

  Kelli dashed to the kitchen and picked up the receiver on the red wall phone. Its old-fashioned rotary dial stared at her like a multi-eyed alien.

  “I’m here, Jack.” She cocked her head at her visitor and raised her eyebrows. With a nod of understanding, he backed out the door.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. You ever answer the phone? Or check your messages?”

  “Hey, I’ve been out, doing what you pay me for. You know how hard it is to get decent bird pictures?” She paused, waiting for him to say the inevitable, hoping she was wrong.

  “You love it and you know it.” He cleared his throat. “There’s been a change in plans. Thornton’s pushed up the schedule. Wants to open right after Labor Day.”

  “Labor Day? That’s not even two weeks from now. What happened to spring? You know our deal. I do the environmental studies—alone—and then you send in the labor crews.”

  “Kiddo, I know, but there’s no way to finish on time without help. If we lose the funding, it’s all over. I can’t replace you at this late date and the dorm cabin has to be repaired, pronto. I’ve sent a handyman to take care of it. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  She glanced at the front door. “Six-two, long hair?”

  “Yep. Blake Windsor.”

  A lead ball filled her stomach. “He’s here.”

  * * * * *

  Blake rose and walked along the porch, catching a glimpse of Kelli pacing the kitchen, her movements restricted by the phone’s twisted cord. For an instant their eyes met and she spun around. He almost winced at the daggers she’d shot him.

  He left the porch and wandered the ya
rd, checking for a cell phone signal. Nothing, just as it had been for the past five miles. So much for calling his boss and telling him this was a wild goose chase.

  He peeled off his windbreaker and tied his hair back. After some stretches, he began a tai chi form to work the kinks out of muscles stiffened by hours behind the wheel of that overloaded EnviroCon pickup. Driving a Ford F-250 over the winding mountain roads was like driving a tank, but his classic Corvette wouldn’t fit the handyman image.

  He moved through the form, trying to focus his mind, but he couldn’t shake the surprise seeing Kelli Carpenter had given him. How his boss could think the frumpy brunette who’d answered the door was the elegant Casey Wallace was beyond him. He couldn’t imagine the sleek blonde in the photograph his boss had sent ever having a streak of mud on her cheek.

  She’d caught him staring, and he hoped she’d bought his flimsy “wrong gender” excuse. He spared another quick glance toward the house. Still on the phone, she pounded one fist against her hip.

  Something rustled in the bushes. His head snapped toward the sound. Trees and bushes and things that slithered and crawled were not on his list of relaxation pastimes. Why couldn’t this Kelli, or Casey, or whoever she was, live in Cancun?

  “I need a favor,” Dwight Hollingsworth had said. “You’ll be compensated. The Connolly acquisition is a done deal. You’re nearby. You know the carpentry business. Take a couple of days, do the handyman routine so she won’t suspect anything, then tell me if she’s the woman in the picture. That’s all. Yes or no. I’ll expect your call.”

  And Dwight had hung up the phone, and that was that. The boss had spoken.

  To refuse Dwight—or question his motives—would be career suicide, or at the very least, a major setback to Blake’s calculated plans. He sure as hell wasn’t ready to start over, so here he was, out in the woods, keeping his eyes open and his mouth shut, cursing the fact that his boss knew he’d been raised by a carpenter.

  What the hell. Dwight’s “compensation” meant Blake would be making a whole lot more money than his father ever had for a home repair job. That might make it a little easier to play handyman for a few days.

  “Mr. Windsor?” Kelli leaned over the rail of the front porch, and the expression on her face said she wasn’t happy with whatever Jack Stockbridge had told her.

  “I’ll be right there.” He grabbed his jacket and jogged to the porch. “I take it everything’s cleared up?”

  “Jack explained it. He said you should be done within a week.”

  “I hope so, but that’s his estimate not mine. I’ll have to check it out before I can tell.”

  The look on her face was like a kid who’d just found out there was no Santa, no Easter Bunny and she’d be stuck going to summer school instead of summer camp. A twinge in his chest surprised him. “Hey,” he said. “I’m pretty good. Maybe I’ll be finished sooner.”

  Her expression brightened only a little. “If you give me a few minutes, I’ll clear a room for you. I hope someone told you to bring your own food.”

  He nodded. “I promise not to be any trouble.”

  The look she gave him said he was already too much trouble. But there was something else. Not only the irritation and confusion he’d seen when he’d arrived. Something else. Pain? Fear? His gut told him she was hiding something.

  Before he could work on that thought, she disappeared through a doorway at the far end of the room. He brought in his food, such as it was. While he found places for everything in the small U-shaped kitchen, his stomach rumbled. Trying to get here before sunset meant he’d skipped lunch on the road.

  “Your room’s down there,” Kelli said. He turned and looked in the direction she pointed. She’d left the door to a narrow hallway open. “Sheets, blankets and towels are on the bed. I’ve got some work I have to do.” She practically jumped to avoid physical contact when she passed him.

  He carried his duffel down the hall and stopped at the open door. White walls, white painted nightstands between the three white metal-framed cots, white sheets, white towels. There were no curtains on the tiny window, but if there had been they’d have been white too, he guessed. A navy blue blanket was the only color in the room. He lifted the sash, letting in a faint pine breeze. As he put his Dopp Kit in the tiny bathroom, the front door slammed, followed by the sound of a car driving away.

  Hopes of sharing a welcoming meal with the woman in the photograph dissolved like froth in a latte. He sighed and went to the kitchen.

  After wolfing a can of stew and two peanut butter sandwiches, Blake took advantage of Kelli’s absence. His quarters were on one side of an open living area. Expensive deadbolt locks secured two doors on the other side. Kelli’s domain. So much for checking her out.

  He wandered through the space. Plain, utilitarian furniture. Frumpy, just like Kelli. In front of a brown and beige plaid couch, a scarred wooden coffee table held a small stack of books. He strolled over and glanced at the titles. A battered copy of the complete Sherlock Holmes, an Agatha Christie collection, and a paperback mystery. He opened the Holmes book and rifled the pages before setting it down exactly where he found it.

  An easy chair, a mate to one by the couch, faced French doors overlooking a lake. Binoculars and a field guide to Western birds lay on a small table beside the chair. He could see the Kelli he’d just met spending time here. Not the Casey he was looking for.

  Nothing here told him Kelli was Casey Wallace. Dwight hadn’t said anything about collecting fingerprints, or DNA samples, not that he had a clue how to do it, but he’d given his word to investigate and he owed Dwight more than a quick peek. He’d have to get her talking. He made his living reading people and was damn good at it.

  But for now, he was a handyman, not a corporate negotiator. He stood on the porch, listening as the unfamiliar noises of the wilderness faded under the growl of distant motorcycles engines. To him, it was the motorcycles that sounded like home. He took a deep breath. Instead of exhaust fumes, he smelled dirt over something he could only describe as “green.”

  He drove the truck down to the cabin and had a look around. The roof needed a lot of work and plywood covered the window openings. Inside, the plumbing was in bad shape. He began unloading the materials Jack Stockbridge had supplied, unpleasantly surprised at how easily he slipped into contractor mode, assessing what needed to be done and mentally prioritizing tasks.

  He heard his father from the great beyond.

  There’s no shame in working with your hands, son. Learn to take care of the basics and you’ll never want for a roof over your head.

  He ignored the ache in his gut. He’d sworn he’d never pick up a hammer or cut another board as long as he drew breath.

  Now that the sun was down, the temperature dropped. Late August at four thousand feet was nothing like the weather he’d left behind in Seattle. He stomped on the porch, rubbing his arms against the chill, and eyeballed the small stack of firewood. He saw no need to freeze. If Kelli objected—well, he’d apologize, but at least they’d be talking. He carried an armload of wood inside and lit a fire.

  Not much later, Kelli stomped back into the house, her face ruddy from the chill night air. She’d changed out of her muddy clothes—and the smudges on her cheek were gone. He gave her a friendly smile. “Welcome back. It was getting cold, so I started a fire. Hope you don’t mind. I’ll be glad to replace any firewood.”

  She glanced at him, at the fireplace and gave her head a noncommittal tilt.

  Okay, that hadn’t worked. He tried again. “If it’s not being too nosy, may I ask where you’ve been? Please don’t tell me there’s a gourmet restaurant out there.”

  She went to the closet and hung up her parka, then crossed the room to the kitchen. “Running a trap line. We have to account for any protected or endangered species inhabiting the area.”

  Ah. An opening. “Doesn’t trapping an endangered animal kind of defeat the purpose?”

  She shook her head and
gave him an eye-rolling look somewhere between ridicule and annoyance. “These are Sherman live traps. Nothing to hurt the animal. First thing in the morning, I’ll photograph and release anything I catch.” She opened the refrigerator and peered inside.

  “Nothing dangerous, I hope.”

  She slammed the refrigerator shut. “No and it’s no concern of yours. You’re here to fix the cabin, nothing more.”

  “Simply trying to be neighborly,” he said. “Am I allowed to use the living room? Far left side of the couch? Or should I take one of the chairs to my room? I didn’t bring any furniture.” He tried to keep a jovial tone in his voice, but he heard some irritation bleeding through.

  She turned toward him. “Sorry.” For a moment, her eyes met his. “I’ve been by myself a long time. I’m not used to sharing. This space is open territory, okay?”

  “Okay. Can you tell me more about this project? What did Stockbridge call it? Getaway something?”

  “Camp Getaway.” She put a container in the microwave, then turned to face him. “The plan is to bring inner city kids up here. Get them away from concrete and drive-bys for a while.”

  “Sounds like a worthwhile undertaking. Maybe keep some kids from a life of crime.”

  She gazed into space. “Yeah.”

  The microwave beeped and Kelli took out something that smelled like a Chinese restaurant. His mouth watered.

  “Why don’t you eat by the fire and get warm?” He tried the smile that usually attracted women like a magnet.

  Kelli found a fork, poured herself a glass of wine and walked toward him. And kept on walking.

  * * * * *

  Kelli sat at her desk and poked at the reheated stir-fry. After a bite, she pushed the container aside. She needed to work, not think about the punk who held up convenience stores, killing people. People she loved. A place like Camp Getaway might have turned him around. She wondered if being left alive was some kind of punishment for her sins.