Hatfield and McCoy Read Online Free Page B

life and death. They had to get along. And he had to learn that he had to listen to her.
    She leaned back. “Go straight down the road here, then make a left. It should be the third or fourth house in.”
    He glanced her way again. There was a steel sizzle to his eyes. It was electric. She nearly jumped from the power of that gaze.
    But she didn’t. She’d never let him know that he managed to nonplus her.
    Maybe his eyes shot silver bullets, but he didn’t ignore her directions. He turned the black Lincoln just as she had directed.
    There was no mistaking the house. As soon as they came around the corner, Julie saw the kidnapped little girl’s parents waiting. There were other people around them. Family, friends, perhaps. The Nicholsons, she thought quickly, remembering everything she had been told. Martin and Louisa. And their little girl’s name was Tracy. She would be eight next week.
    The lawn, the neighborhood looked so normal, so peaceful. It was spring, and Louisa Nicholson had planted all kinds of flowers along the walkway. The house was freshly painted a bright white with green trim around the windows and doors. It was a moderately affluent neighborhood, a working neighborhood, a place where Sesame Street and Disney movies would play for the children, where hope blossomed for the best of lives, where the American dream could be played out.
    But not today.
    Robert McCoy pulled his Lincoln to the side of the road. The engine was still revving down when Julie opened her door and hurried out. She smiled reassuringly as she walked up the steps to the cement pathway leading to the broad porch and the house. She knew the girl’s mother instantly—a small woman with dark curly hair and large brown eyes that kept filling with tears. She stood beside a lean man with thinning gray-black hair. “Mr. Nicholson?” She shook his hand, then turned quickly to his wife. “Mrs. Nicholson? I’m Julie Hatfield. Petty sent me from his office, and a Mr. McCoy, FBI, is right behind me. You mustn’t worry, really. I don’t know what Petty told you about me, but I am very good, and I’m certain that at this moment, Tracy is fine. Just fine.”
    Something in her words must have reached Mrs. Nicholson because some of the cloud seemed to disappear from her eyes. She smiled at Julie, then looked over Julie’s shoulder. McCoy was coming toward them.
    â€œMrs. Nicholson, I’m—” he began.
    â€œYes, yes, you’re the FBI man,” Louisa Nicholson said. “Julie, please come in. My husband and I will help you in any way we can. Oh, Mr.—did you say McCoy, Miss Hatfield?”
    They were going to go through a lot of this, Julie thought.
    She smiled. “Yes, he’s a McCoy. Isn’t it just disgraceful?”
    â€œMiss Hatfield—” McCoy began, that deep voice filled with all kinds of authority.
    It didn’t matter. Louisa Nicholson actually laughed, and her tall, balding husband at her side almost grinned.
    â€œWe’re just so very worried,” Martin Nicholson said.
    â€œNaturally,” Julie said softly. “Shall we go in?”
    The Nicholsons excused themselves to the anxious friends and neighbors who had gathered around. Julie saw a few friends from church and waved, then hurriedly followed the Nicholsons into the parlor. Julie glanced around quickly. It was a warm house. A house, she thought, where a lot of love lived. There was a beautiful china cabinet to one side of the entry, filled with various collections of crystal and figurines. The two hutches that filled out the parlor were mahogany, rich and beautifully polished. But the sofa and chairs in the center of the room were overstuffed and very comfortable. A little girl could crawl all over them without worrying about being yelled at. She could curl into her father’s lap there, rest her head against her mother’s shoulder.
    Robert McCoy had begun an