Locked, Loaded, & Lying

by Sarah Andre

  They descended quickly, his footing sure, his pace confident, but every step jarred her to the point of screaming, as if nerve endings encased her skin. Her only relief came from the cool, soothing snowflakes raining down on the tiny portion of her exposed face. God, she was so tired, if only she could close her eyes. Just for a second.

  She blinked and shook her head. She couldn’t afford the luxury of sleep right now. This journey was her last access to him and his secrets. Her mother’s future depended on these moments right here—getting Lock to talk. She would not let the opportunity pass because of a few aches and pains.

  Gathering energy through sheer grit, she shifted and felt him grasp her tighter as he angled his head, blocking the snowflakes.

  “How ya holding up?” he asked, in a tone that said he didn’t give a shit.

  She shrugged under all the layers. “I’ve been worse. How are you holding up?”

  “Epic. You’re lighter than my ski gear.”

  “No, I mean your murder trial next week.”

  “Fuck.”

  She felt his misstep, and abruptly they began skating down the steep hill. His torso jerked like a surfer’s to stay balanced. He couldn’t avoid the tree they careened toward, but at the last second he pivoted to protect her from the impact. His right shoulder slammed into the trunk. Every cell in her body screamed at the jolt, but she bit back the grunt and clutched the flashlight tighter. She wasn’t sure if the obscenity was for her question or the slip.

  He yanked them past the branches and began descending again, somewhat recklessly now.

  “So what’s your theory?” he asked again.

  “I…I need some facts about your case first.”

  He made an ugly sound inside his scarf. “You’re in it for the exclusive. How stupid do you think I am?”

  “If you’d stop with the paranoia for just a second—”

  “My lawyer’s got the case handled, all right?”

  She ignored the brush off. Ignored the dark, dancing spots in her vision. “Leo told me Tiffany snorted cocaine. Has your lawyer investigated her dealer?”

  The only sound she heard was the shrieking wind and suffering groan of trees.

  Annoyance helped gather the next burst of energy. “Did you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, Jordan.”

  “How long was she seeing Roberto Vannini?”

  He repeated the oath even more viciously, halting long enough that she began to fear he’d drop her right there. After several thudded heartbeats off her lifespan, he appeared to collect himself, and they descended again. Some part of her realized she no longer had access to Lock. Like someone with multiple personalities, the patient, heroic guy who’d saved her vanished the moment he found her purse. This was Lock and Load, a journalist’s worst nightmare.

  It didn’t matter—she had a job to do. “We have to talk about something, and it’s not like I’m going to change the subject.”

  “We don’t have to talk about anything,” he snapped.

  Maybe a simple yes-no question. “You had no inkling about Vannini?”

  Even through the stormy mess and her odd vision, she caught his warning glance. She waited a beat and tried again, working up mocking skepticism. “So her affair came as a complete surprise that night in the parking lot.”

  He huffed out a misty breath through the scarf. The sound may have been a sigh or a “Yuh.” She went for the affirmative.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said. “You knew about him—or at least suspected something.” The last two words sounded slurry, and she frowned.

  “Hold the flashlight steady!”

  He adjusted her weight again, gripping her so tight now she wanted to howl in protest, and she would have, too, if it didn’t take all her energy. For crying out loud, why was her brain so fuzzy? She had to be sharp, at the top of her game. If she returned to Boston empty-handed, her father’s rage would be uncontrollable. He used to threaten to kill her and Ginny almost daily. Hell, he’d probably take out Rebecca too, just for grins. Lock had to give her something!

  “I guess the boyfriend’s always the last to know,” she croaked, and a bunch of obscenities flew into the freezing wind.

  “It’s not like I didn’t know,” he burst out. “She acted strange…”

  Jordan strained to hear, but his voice faded until only the eerie whistle of wind remained. Whether he was a million miles away in some dark memory or furious he’d been tricked into answering would remain a mystery.

  “What do you think happened that night?” She panted for breath. “Who hated her enough to kill her?” Questions Starr News and the whole nation wanted to know.

  “Not me.” He nodded toward a clearing that thankfully looked like the highway.

  “Leo said she’d just broken up with Vannini.” Definitely slurred speech. Had Leo given her something besides Tylenol?

  “I’m going to kill that asshole,” Lock snarled.

  “Did Vannini threaten her?”

  He marched along the road, clearly done talking.

  “Or you?” The snowy vista narrowed like some odd tunneling effect in a Hitchcock movie. She blinked several times. No change. Hang on. Just please hang on!

  “Did he…follow…you guys ho…”

  His voice came from a long way away. “Hey. Are you okay?”

  The tunnel closed in on her.

  Chapter Nine

  When the annoying ringtone blared somewhere on Jordan’s body, Lock slowed the pickup in the center of the empty highway and shifted into park. Guess the cell towers were back up. Localizing the sound to her right arm, he unzipped the jacket and snagged it from her sleeve, ignoring the twinge in his groin as he accidentally brushed her breast.

  “Yeah?” he answered gruffly.

  A two-second pause on the other end. “Who’s this?”

  The deep voice and the bark reminded him of Coach, which for some reason made Lock answer in a more respectful tone. “A good Samaritan.”

  The man swore softly. “Where’s Jordan?”

  Lock heard the distinct beep of a low battery. “Out cold and lying across the front seat of a pickup. I’m taking her to the hospital.”

  Another string of oaths. Lock appreciated the man’s creativity. “What in the hell happened?” The bark sounded like a threat.

  “She was in a car accident.”

  “Is she going to live?”

  “Probably.” Lock gazed at the angelic face resting in his lap. “She’s a lot tougher than she looks. Who’re you?”

  “Her boss.”

  “The PI?”

  “Lock Roane, I presume?”

  “Why would you presume that?”

  “I told her where to find you. I didn’t realize then that Leo Ritchie was your twin, but I’ll bet she already knows that by now anyway.”

  The hair on the back of Lock’s neck prickled. She sure did. Tricked him with a gay question. “She says you sent her all the way from Boston to offer investigative help.” Aloud it sounded so idiotic he almost laughed.

  “Only if you wanna walk free.”

  “Nice ego.”

  “Not just me, we come as a team. I’ve got the tech know-how, and she comes up with crafty angles no one else can see. And from what I’ve heard on the news, you need crafty…big time.”

  Unless she could hypnotize him into remembering that night, she was of no help. “Thanks, but I’ve already got a great defense team.”

  “I bet she didn’t take that for an answer.”

  Despite himself, Lock chuckled, hearing the beep again.

  “Why’d you answer her phone?” the man asked.

  “I couldn’t stand the damn ringtone one more second.” Which was true; he hated P!nk and her girl-power lyrics. “Just for kicks, what’s this theory you two have that would offer up reasonable doubt?”

  There was a nanosecond pause. “Vannini killed your girlfriend.”

  The hesitation may have been short, but it was long enou
gh for Lock to throw up his guard. He’d already been duped by Jordan, why trust this guy? “Vannini’s got an airtight alibi, pal.”

  “Having some Jennifer Johnson woman swear she spent the night with him isn’t airtight.”

  That detail had never been leaked to the press. Lock’s instincts sharpened. “How do you know her name?”

  “We already established that I’m a PI.”

  He still didn’t buy it. “My lawyer’s got one of the best on the payroll.”

  “And how’s that working for you?”

  He sucked in a breath. His PI had turned up squat. Vannini’s alibi was airtight, and Tiff’s coke dealer had provided proof he’d been out of the country…

  Although Lock didn’t know this guy on the phone from Adam, he had to admit Jesselynn—Jordan—was pretty crafty. Could she find something, anything, to prove he hadn’t done this? Despite his own doubt? Despite his history? Somewhere inside, a laser-thin ray of hope flickered for the first time since that awful, bloody morning.

  The silence lengthened. The cell beeped insistently.

  “Why would Vannini kill the woman he was having an affair with?” Lock finally blustered.

  “You ever read the Sports Illustrated article about a year ago on Vannini’s questionable doping?”

  “Yeah, the bastard was cleared.”

  “Which we both know doesn’t mean squat. Maybe your girlfriend found proof on her trip to Milan. Maybe when she tried to break it off with him, he had to make sure that secret never got out. His career would’ve been over, right?”

  “Right.” A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck, and he breathed audibly into the phone. “Jesus Christ.”

  “I don’t know about you,” the man continued, “but him being in Aspen the same night she was killed is a little too coincidental for me.”

  The low battery beep chirped in Lock’s ear. Not now! “I’m about to lose you, man, what’s your phone number? What’s your name?”

  The man chuckled. “You just make sure she gets well. She’s all you need.”

  “I want you.”

  “Listen skier-boy, not only did she come up with that motive on her drive out to see you, but she’s the one who wrote that steroid article. She’s followed Vannini and his career in much more depth than your lawyer and his worker bees ev—”

  The phone died. Lock blinked, slack-jawed.

  She’s the one who wrote that steroid article.

  The shock and alarm in those beautiful blue eyes when he’d snatched her pad and ripped it in half. Last February, when he’d just finished competing at Breckenridge. She was the reporter from Sports Illustrated.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  His shout stirred Jordan, and he realized the pickup was still in the center of a slippery highway, miles from Franklin Memorial. He tucked the cell into his jacket and shifted into gear.

  The depth of her lies and the brilliance of that vulnerable-little-girl act both impressed and infuriated him. So did the fact that she’d gotten to know him instead of his persona these last couple of days. Change of plans. No way was he dropping off a reporter who’d just collected two days’ worth of information. He’d stick around the ER somehow and bring her back to the cabin for the rest of the week. Even if it meant kidnapping. Besides, this PI connection in Boston couldn’t hurt.

  Vannini killed your girlfriend. The four words clanged like a gong in his ears.

  “Hey, Jordan.” He stroked her cheek, which was hot and clammy. “You awake?”

  Her eyelids fluttered open, and in the dashboard light she stared up at him with those fathomless blue eyes. His pulse raced, catching him by surprise. He hated liars, and he hated the media. What was with this surge of adrenalin?

  “Oh my God,” she mumbled, “what day is it?”

  He frowned. Weird how she fixated on days. “It’s Wednesday evening, and we’re almost at Franklin.”

  She gripped the dashboard and dragged herself upright, smothering a groan, then gazed around and sniffed. “Ugh. Do you smoke?”

  “Naw, I borrowed a friend’s truck, remember?” More like skimming a credit card along the flimsy lock of Sam’s store and taking the keys from the register. Nothing like adding B&E and grand theft auto to his rap sheet, what the hell.

  “It stinks in here. Gives me a headache.”

  Lock cracked the window. Every molecule in his body wanted to start in on her about the Vannini angle, but he checked the impulse. The PI might be tricking him into opening up just so she could write the article of the century. He needed to chew on that conversation a bit more before he told her about the call.

  Way up ahead, the lighted cobalt cross of the hospital beckoned them, a glaring beacon against a backdrop of white-speckled sky and mounds of snow.

  “We never finished our conversation back on the hill,” she said, like a damn broken record.

  “Yeah. We did.”

  “But I blacked out—”

  “Too bad for you, it was an awesome story.”

  “I’m trying to hel—”

  “Look. The hospital’s up ahead.”

  To his utter surprise, she clammed up.

  “Seriously,” he murmured, “what’s up with you and hospitals?”

  “Can’t someone just not like hospitals?”

  “Not to this degree.”

  She lifted her chin—like determined pride—and it struck him again how different she was from any woman he knew. Yeah, her lies annoyed him, but what kept him fascinated was how that tough exterior hid such lonely vulnerability within. Something about that combination kept strumming a protective chord deep inside.

  Whatever her deal with hospitals was, if she could handle it, so could he. His past was filled with a buttload of daredevil stunts. Sneaking into a hospital without being recognized? Piece of cake.

  Still, as he fishtailed into the half-circle drive, dread coursed through him. Just one sighting, and he could kiss his career good-bye. And then what? If, by the grace of God, he was found not guilty, racing downhill at eighty miles an hour was all he knew.

  He killed the engine, studying her profile in the dark cab. “Ready?”

  “Never. But let’s get this over with.”

  As he walked around to her door, he took a moment to pull the knit cap low over his brow and hike the scarf up past his lips. He’d pass for any Coloradoan in a waning blizzard.

  When he gathered her in his arms, he felt her trembling through the mound of gear they’d wrapped her in. “We’ll get through this, Jordan,” he muttered, but couldn’t suppress the finality in his tone.

  The automatic doors whooshed open. He stepped from arctic silence into claustrophobic heat, blinding florescent light, and noise only panicked crowds conjured. The metallic smell of blood overwhelmed him.

  Senses assaulted, he stomped his boots to give himself time to process the chaos. Staff in green scrubs or white jackets rushed by, some pushing gurneys or wheelchairs. All around the reception area and down the hall people milled about or slumped in chairs, many moaning, some crying above the shouted directives of doctors and urgent overhead paging.

  “Jesus,” he whispered. Jordan whimpered and buried her face in his jacket. He eyed the admissions coordinator in a cubicle, her untidy hair and harassed expression clearly signaling this was not a recent crisis. Shouldering through the crowd and stepping over people sprawled on the floor, he reached her. “Ma’am, she’s been in a car accident—”

  “We all have, buddy! Get in the back of the line.”

  Lock spun toward the raging voice. A middle-aged, bald man leaned against a poster offering flu shots, staring belligerently through horror-movie bloodshot eyes. Blood even trickled from one eye duct as he held an ice pack to his head.

  Lock hesitated, the inherent urge to retort evaporating in his shock. “What happened?”

  “Bus accident,” the man responded, just as the admissions lady said to Lock, “I’m sorry, sir, we’re in disaster mode.”

/>   Lock faced her. “Come again?”

  “We have more patients than we can handle. We’re out of rooms. I can’t even estimate when she could be seen by one of the doctors.”

  The cap and scarf concealing him began suffocating him. “Look, I don’t think she can wait. I mean, Jesus, this is a hospital—it’s taken us hours to get here…”

  “A nurse will be over to take her vitals as soon as possible. We’re doing the best we can, sir, but we’re on diversion status.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning hopefully all ambulances are taking any new patients straight to South General. You might try there.”

  South General? “That’ll take hours in this. She doesn’t have that kind of time.”

  “Then I’m sorry, sir. We’ll get to her as soon as we can.” The lady picked up a file and looked over his shoulder. “John Carstens?”

  The man with the bloody eyes straightened from the wall. “Here.”

  Lock glanced at him shuffling by, then down at Jordan’s flushed face. He might be up on murder charges, but he was still a celebrity. All he had to do was say his name, and she’d bump to the front of this crowd.

  He stepped parallel to Carstens. “Listen,” he said to the coordinator, “I’m—”

  “Don’t!” Jordan winced and tried again. “Don’t…fight her. I’m not as bad off as these people. Let’s just go.”

  The rush of relief was quickly overshadowed by a deep attraction for her. She didn’t know it, but she’d just saved his career…at the expense of her health.

  “All right. South General isn’t that far.” On a sunny day.

  He began picking his way back through the injured masses when the double doors whooshed open. A man holding a high-tech video camera raced over the threshold followed closely by a female with a mic. As the cameraman hoisted the device to his shoulder, she said loudly to no one in particular, “Annie Sawyer, Channel Eleven News.”