by Kay Hooper
Margo was silent for several minutes while she finished packing and closed her suitcase, then straightened, still frowning. “I know you’ve seen something. Something bad.”
Steadily, Sarah said, “Whatever I’ve seen, today taught me something very…hopeful. It taught me that I’m not always right. That there’s…that there may be…room to change what I see.” She didn’t believe that, but for Margo’s sake she tried to sound convincing.
“That’s what you and Tucker are planning to do, isn’t it? Change some future disaster you’ve seen.”
“How could we do that?”
“You tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” As she had explained to Tucker earlier, telling Margo of the bleak fate she had seen for herself would accomplish nothing except to alarm her friend and quite probably convince Margo that she should stick close and watch over Sarah.
Neither Sarah nor Tucker thought that would be a good idea; if being mistaken for Sarah had put Margo in danger today, there was always a chance it could happen again.
“So you’re not going to tell me what’s going on?”
Sarah hesitated, then said, “I have to learn to live with this, Margo. With what I’ve become.”
“Don’t say what as if you’d turned into a monster.” Margo’s voice was irritated.
“Okay. But I do have to learn to live with the changes in my life. I don’t know—yet—how I can do that, but I have to figure out a way. Tucker thinks he can help me. I think I should let him try. And that’s all.”
Margo looked as though she wanted to continue pushing but finally swung her suitcase off the bed with a sound that in anyone less feminine would have been a snort of disgust. “All right, all right. But I think you’re both full of cold cuts.”
“Baloney. Full of baloney.” Surprising herself, Sarah began to laugh. It felt as good as her earlier anger had felt.
Margo stared balefully at her for a moment, then joined in.
They had sobered considerably by the time they stood outside Margo’s neatly landscaped Queen Anne–style house. She put her suitcase in the backseat of her ten-year-old sedan, then hugged Sarah hard and said, “I don’t want to hear about the next disaster on the news, pal. Call me if anything happens. Or even if it doesn’t.”
“I will. And don’t worry—I’ll lock up before we leave.”
“Just remember—don’t hesitate to stay here if you get tired of the shop’s apartment. Or for any other reason.”
“Thanks. Have a good trip.”
“I will. And you kiss Tucker for me.” Margo winked, then got in her car and backed it out of the driveway.
Sarah watched her friend drive out of sight, and it was only when the dark car was gone that she became aware of the chill of the late September afternoon. Feeling abruptly alone and too vulnerable, she quickly went back up the walkway to the house, conscious of her heart suddenly pounding. As if a door had opened to allow a chill breeze into her mind, she knew there were eyes on her. Watching.
Waiting.
Sarah…
She hurried inside and turned to close the front door, and caught a glimpse of a tall man in a black leather jacket moving away between two houses across the street. Just a glimpse, and then he was gone.
Colder than before, Sarah closed and locked the door. But she didn’t feel safe. She didn’t feel safe at all.
“You want what?” Marc Westbrook’s black brows rose, and his gray eyes were suddenly uncomfortably searching.
“I’d like to borrow your gun. That forty-five you got from your father.” Tucker kept his voice casual and did his best to meet the level gaze of his childhood friend with total innocence.
Apparently, innocent wasn’t his best face.
“What’re you up to, Tucker?”
“Look, you know I won’t shoot myself in the foot; I can handle guns as well as you, if not better. I learned when I wrote the one where the mystery hinged on a marksman—”
“I know you can handle guns.” Marc leaned back in the leather chair behind his big, cluttered desk, his frown deepening. “I also know you make a damned good living and can easily afford to buy a gun if you want—or need—one. So why borrow mine?”
“I don’t need a gun to keep, just to…use for a while. To have for a while. A few days, maybe a couple of weeks. You know I don’t approve of guns in the house, so—”
“So why do you need one, even temporarily? Last I heard, you had a dandy security system and a damn big dog.”
“The security system is fine. The dog belonged to my sister and she came and claimed him when she got back from England.”
“Tucker, why a gun?”
“Hey, do I ask you nosy questions?”
“Frequently.” Marc smiled, but it was fleeting and left him looking unusually serious. “Out with it. Why do you need a gun? And why do I have this uneasy feeling that you came to me simply because you’re in a hurry and don’t want to sit out the waiting period?”
Tucker would have liked to confide in his friend. He thought a great deal of Marc. They had played cops and robbers as boys, had competed for and fought over girls as teenagers, and still managed to get together once a week or so even though both had demanding careers and Marc was now happily married and about to become a father. But Marc was a solidly—not to say rigidly—law-abiding man, and Tucker had no doubt that, once told of the situation, he would strongly disagree with the plan forming in his friend’s fertile and not always cautious mind.
It was a potentially dangerous situation, he would say, and he would be right. From that point of agreement, they would immediately diverge. Marc thought the police should handle dangerous situations, that most cops were good cops and could be trusted. Tucker was beginning to have his doubts, especially after today’s interview with Sergeant Lewis.
Slowly, Tucker said, “I’m asking for a favor, Marc. I need to borrow your gun for a little while. No questions asked.”
“That’s a fine thing to say to a criminal lawyer.”
“Yeah, I know. But I’m saying it. You still keep the gun here, don’t you? In your desk?”
Marc nodded.
“Well, then?”
“You aren’t going to rob a bank, right?”
“Very funny.”
“Well, how the hell should I know what you’ve got in mind? When you were writing the one about a terrorist group, you damn near ended up with a working bomb, and that one set on a runaway train got you blacklisted by Amtrak. I shudder to think what’s next.”
Tucker had no qualms in allowing his friend to believe he needed the gun for some reason associated with his latest novel. Lightly, he said, “You’ll find out when you read all about it. The gun?”
Marc hesitated, but they had been friends a long time, and so he unlocked a lower drawer of his desk and produced the holstered gun. Handing it across, he said, “I just cleaned it the other day. The clip’s full, chamber’s empty.”
“Gotcha. Thanks, Marc. I really appreciate this.”
When Tucker stood up to leave, Marc said only, “I don’t know what’s going on, Tucker, but watch yourself.”
“You bet. Say hello to Josie for me.”
“I will.”
They didn’t shake hands, though later Tucker wished they had.
He continued with his meal even after he felt more than heard someone slide into the booth behind him. He heard the waitress come and brightly recommend this week’s chicken dish, heard a low voice order the chicken with a slight indifference that seemed to miff the waitress. Either that, or she was upset that her charms had no effect on this particular customer.
Save it, sweetheart. He’s made of ice.
When she’d gone away, he leaned back, making a show of sipping his coffee and looking around casually, a satisfied diner relaxing after his meal. He spoke in a low voice without turning. “It’s no good. Mackenzie’s suspicious. He won’t buy another accident, especially if Gallagher disappears.”
“You’re sure?” The answering voice was also low.
“Absolutely. And she’s looking to him for help, that’s clear, so he’s going to be with her. I don’t know what he’ll do next, but if I were in his place…I’d get her out of Richmond. Fast.”
“And go where?”
“I don’t know.”
“We need better information.”
“I’m aware of that.” He heard his voice stiffen and strove to make it once more calm and casual. There were some men it just didn’t pay to get angry at, and this man headed the list. “Mackenzie’s been all over the country in the last ten years, researching and promoting his novels. Believes in immersing himself in a subject if he needs it for one of his books—and some of those subjects have been fairly esoteric.”
“For example?”
“Explosives—the kind you can put together from ingredients in most kitchens. Computer hacking. Survival training. Weapons. Defensive driving. He’s taken courses through the FBI on topics ranging from antiterrorism to psychological profiling. He has a degree in electronics, and a measured IQ of over one-eighty, which puts him solidly in the genius range. And he was a fucking Boy Scout. Probably thinks he’s MacGyver. Oh, and one last thing. From what I’ve been able to gather, he’s always been interested in the paranormal. You should see all the books on his shelves.”
The ice man’s voice was grim. “In other words, the perfect person to keep Sarah Gallagher safe.”
“I’d feel safe in his keeping, and I don’t like the bastard.”
“Why wasn’t I told of this before?”
“I didn’t know before.” He forced the irritation from his voice. “Even with my resources and all the social networking out there, it takes a good twenty-four hours to search deep background on somebody unless that person is a criminal. Mackenzie isn’t. And despite being famous in his field, he has a surprisingly small online presence, and that’s almost entirely about his books.” He fell silent as the waitress returned and served the chicken dish to the ice man. Once again she tried flirting, and once again her customer was indifferent.
Wave your boobs in my face, sweetheart, and we’ll talk. Hell, we’ll do a lot more than talk. But she wouldn’t, of course. They never did.
When she’d flounced away, he spoke again. “If Mackenzie didn’t have a certain amount of celebrity, I wouldn’t have been able to find out as much as I did this quickly.”
But you won’t thank me, will you, you icy son of a bitch. Oh no.
“What else do you know?”
Oh no, no trouble at all. Don’t mention it, really.
“Tax records, voting record, credit report, school records—”
“What do you know about him that will help us?”
He was silent for a minute or two, pushing aside his dangerous anger as he considered all the varied information about Tucker Mackenzie that had been dumped into his retentive brain. When he spoke, it was slowly. “He’s a puzzle solver. Creative, of course. Intuitive. Stubborn. Highly loyal to friends. Athletic; hiking, climbing, and swimming are some of the ways he keeps in shape. He knows how to get information. He knows how to work alone. He knows how to think ahead. Plays a mean game of chess. Grand master.”
“What are his weaknesses?”
“He might not take Gallagher’s predictions as seriously as she does.”
“Why not?” Interest quickened in that low voice.
“It’s just a hunch, but I don’t think he believes. He’s debunked a few psychics in the past, and I hear he’s so good at it he might have made a career out of it. In fact, I’m surprised you don’t know more about him than I do.”
“We can’t be everywhere.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered.
Ignoring that, the ice man asked, “What else? Weaknesses?”
“Hell, I don’t know. He could be reckless. Cocky maybe, at least until he figures out what he’s up against. He’ll underestimate you in the beginning, I’d bet money on that. I’d say he likes to believe himself in control of any given situation; the kind of guy who never loses his temper if he’s losing a game, and smiles while he’s already planning how to kick your ass next time. And—I don’t know if he could kill someone up close and personal. I don’t know if he’s got that in him.”
“Maybe he doesn’t. But she does.”
He was tempted to glance back over his shoulder but didn’t. Instead, he lit a cigarette despite the NO SMOKING signs posted and blew a lazy smoke ring. “Whatever you say.” Quite deliberately, he didn’t ask what he was supposed to do next. He hated that shit, he really did.
Not that the ice man waited for him to ask.
“All right, maintain the surveillance until you hear from me.”
“If he’s going to move, he’ll move quickly.”
“I know. So be ready.”
“Me? What comes next is up to you people. I’m just here to watch, report—and clean up the mess.”
“You’re here to do whatever we need you to do.” The ice man’s voice was silky.
“I’m not your fucking hired thug.”
“You’re my dog if that’s what I need you to be. Shall I order you to sit up and bark?”
He smoked furiously, hating the bastard. And hating himself. He glared at the waitress, who had started toward him the instant he lit his cigarette but now decided instead to clear off a couple of tables.
“Be ready. Understand?”
“Yes.”
A moment later, he was alone in the back of the restaurant. He didn’t see the ice man leave. Hell, he didn’t even hear him leave. And he should have. He really should have.
A few moments later, the flirty waitress came back to the ice man’s table, bewildered by his absence but clearly pleased by the size of the tip left on the table. Even so, she glanced at the man in the next booth and said rather mildly, “Sir, there’s no smoking inside.”
He pulled his ID from his pocket and laid it on the table, open long enough for her to see the badge.
She left without another word.
When Sergeant Lewis lifted his cigarette to his lips, he saw that his hand was shaking.
FIVE
Sarah drew a breath of relief when Tucker returned to Margo’s house, not realizing until that moment how tense she had been while waiting for him. As for Tucker, he too seemed on edge and a bit preoccupied, and she wondered whether he was having second thoughts about even temporarily hitching his fate to hers.
Not that she blamed him for that. No man in his right mind would want to be saddled with her.
“Every light in the house is on,” he said mildly as he came in.
She blinked and looked around, surprised to find it true. She had been restless, and she had wandered from room to room, her skin crawling with that now-familiar creepy sense of being watched. Her subconscious had obviously felt at least a bit safer with lots of light.
She had very carefully not thought about the voice in her head.
“He was outside,” she said.
Tucker stood in the small entrance hall, ignoring her automatic gesture indicating they could go into the living room. He didn’t have to ask who she was talking about. “When did you see him?”
“Right after Margo left. Across the street, moving between two houses. I didn’t see him again after that, even though I looked.” But he’s still there. Still watching. Still waiting.
“I didn’t see him when I pulled up, but it’s getting dark.” Tucker frowned.
She tried to think of something reassuring. “Maybe he’s just watching. Maybe he didn’t have anything to do with the fire. Or with the wardrobe falling.”
“I hope you’re wrong about that.”
“Why?”
“Bad enough to be looking back over our shoulders for a guy in a black leather jacket; if he isn’t the only one watching you—if he isn’t the only threat—then we have no idea what the other threat looks like.”
Sarah half-consciously wrap
ped her arms around herself in an attempt to ward off the chill.
Tucker reached out and touched her shoulder lightly, but said only, “I’m going to go turn off some of these lights, okay?”
She nodded and wandered into the living room to wait for him. The plan, agreed upon earlier in a hasty discussion in the restaurant after Margo had excused herself, was to return to the apartment over the shop tonight—and to leave Richmond in the morning.
Sarah wasn’t sure how she felt about that. There was a small, almost distant part of her that was alarmed by the hurried decision and bewildered by her willingness to just up and leave everything she had known, yet a larger part of her consciousness was convinced it was the right thing to do.
Yes. Walk away from your friends, your business, and the ashes of your home, because you’re afraid. Put your trust in a man you met yesterday because he says he thinks you can change fate…even though he doesn’t believe you can see the future…
As wrong as it sounded, it felt right. This was what she was supposed to do. This was her fate. A fate Tucker was somehow part of; she knew that too. And that was what frightened her the most, because she knew it meant she was already walking the path that led to her destiny.
Toward the death she had seen.
“I already checked all the doors and windows,” she told him when he joined her in the living room. “That is what you were doing, isn’t it?”
He didn’t try to deny it. “All locked. Drapes are drawn.” He paused, then added, “There were automatic timers on a couple of the upstairs lamps.”
“Yes, Margo always sets them when she goes out of town. The living room lamps have timers as well.”
Tucker didn’t say why the subject interested him, but he seemed even more preoccupied after they locked up Margo’s house and drove back to the apartment over the shop.
“Why don’t you go ahead and pack tonight,” he suggested, almost as soon as they arrived. “We might decide to leave pretty early.”
