Beyond the Rules

by Doranna Durgin

  Okay, so it might take years for her to believe it. First step was making sure they had those years.

  On the way to Hunter he detoured north to Glenora, winding the side streets long enough to hit Kimmer’s street. No traffic. He took the luxury of easing down the street, hesitating in front of the house without actually pulling over.

  Forlorn, it was. The blackened porch, the broken front windows, streaks of soot climbing up the siding, curtains gone. The warped door didn’t quite close. The sharp scent of wet, charred wood reached him through the Element’s fresh air vents and the tickle of it in his sinuses triggered protective anger. All this over a nonexistent recording. All this for a man who’d come up here to use Kimmer, and who’d left knowing he would then betray her.

  It suddenly made perfect sense to him.

  Not family at all.

  Not that man. Not the others she’d left behind.

  Kimmer wasn’t the only one who had a different world to learn.

  Rio headed for Hunter. He drove just over the limit and passed the slow cars where he could, and when he unfolded himself from the driver’s seat, an innocent winery employee took one look at his expression and skittered to the other side of the small parking lot. He snapped his cell phone open and dialed Owen’s regular line. His secretary answered. “Rio Carlsen,” Rio said. “Here to see Owen. Now.”

  “He’s—” The voice held denial. Rio didn’t let him finish.

  “—going to see me or I’ll be standing outside that viniculture development door making all sorts of noise,” Rio said. “He’ll know what it’s about.”

  “So do I,” the secretary said with some aspersion in his deep tenor. “He’s at the winery office. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

  And by the time Rio made it to the winery barn, Owen was stepping out the front door. He didn’t even hesitate, but put a friendly hand of steel on Rio’s shoulder and steered him away from the entrance to walk the pine-bark path along the outside of the barn. “I’ve sent for Dave,” he said. “Everyone else is considerably farther away. He’ll work from within the Pittsburgh police department. He knows who to trust.”

  “I’m going, too,” Rio said. “I need Hank’s address. Don’t tell me you don’t have it.” And then he stopped short. “What do you mean, ‘who to trust’?”

  Owen glanced back at the winery entrance and relaxed slightly; they were out of earshot. Only if someone else came meandering around the path to enjoy the spring flowers blooming up against the barn would they need to move on. “It seems the system isn’t entirely free from corruption. There’s a bogus warrant out for Kimmer.”

  “They didn’t get her?”

  Owen’s mouth quirked in a brief, wry smile. “They did,” he said. “But not for very long.”

  Great. She’d be on everyone’s radar if she’d had an encounter with a cop. “Then I need that address,” he said, “because she needs help.”

  But when Owen merely looked at him in response, measuring his words, Rio’s hackles went up. He wanted a shave, he wanted sleep, he wanted a meal and a good Twinkies fix, but more than any of that he wanted—needed—to be headed straight for Kimmer. “I can get the information on the Web,” he said bluntly. “I can stop at Erie and find an Internet café…I bet it’ll only take a white pages search.”

  “And I’d prefer you didn’t,” Owen said. “This thing has spun entirely out of control. I’ve barely kept it out of the headline news. I’m sending Dave as a Hunter rep and we can’t afford to muddy the waters—”

  “You mean the agency can’t afford it,” Rio said. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You want your brother down there because you know he’ll watch out for Hunter interests, and Hank Reed has already caused enough trouble. Notice I said Hank and not Kimmer.”

  Owen raised a single imperturbable eyebrow, damn him. “If you knew my brother Dave, you’d know what an absurd statement that is.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Rio said. “He left the family business to do his own thing. So what. If he’s working for you, he’s working for you. I’m going. I’ll be working with Kimmer’s interests in mind.”

  Owen stiffened slightly. Good, at least he was paying attention. “And should I ask if you’re still considering the offer to sign on with us?”

  Yeah, the man was good. Rio got it. Rio got it quite clearly. But if Owen thought he could control Rio with that threat, he had another think coming. “That depends,” he said evenly. “I’m still assessing your field support.”

  “Kimmer’s not on a Hunter assignment. In fact, she crossed state lines in express defiance of my wishes.”

  “To clean up a mess that started because of an assignment she took against her wishes,” Rio snapped, quite suddenly aware of the inches he had on Owen, if not the weight.

  And to his surprise, Owen merely sighed. “She said the same.” He shrugged. “And she was right, too.”

  Rio’s eyes narrowed. He could have floundered for words, but kept his silence and his demanding stare in place.

  “Don’t take me wrong.” Owen started them walking again, veering off the path to walk the soft green grounds on approach to the back of the viniculture development building. “My concerns about Hunter’s situation are significant. But I won’t leave Kimmer out to hang in the wind, either. That should be obvious enough, given that Dave is already on his way.”

  “Don’t,” Rio said, hearing the dangerous edge to his own words, “don’t tell me that was some sort of test.”

  “Test?” Owen glanced at him. “Not so to speak. Feeling you out…yes. If you’d been that easy to deter, you’re not the sort I want working with Hunter. And I’d want someone else at Kimmer’s back.”

  “I thought you said there was no one else close enough.”

  Owen raised that eyebrow again. “I’m here.”

  Rio didn’t sputter. Not quite.

  “Now,” Owen said, swinging wide around the building to reach the entrance. “Let’s get that address.”

  She slipped through the trees between the barn and the pasture, feet assured. She knew just when to duck to avoid low branches in the darkness. She knew just when to hesitate to hear if anyone else might be out here. And she knew just where to bend back the best long, springy branches, releasing them to whip in the faces of those who might follow—but who seldom did since she’d already proven her timing and accuracy with those natural weapons.

  No. Not here, not now. It just seemed that way. The trees were the right mix of secondary growth hardwoods, the poison ivy scattered just thickly enough, the back of the barn the same weathered wood of a building not quite kept up but still serviceable…and the partitioned goat shelter in which Kimmer crouched the same rain-softened mucky ground that would suck her sneakers right off if she didn’t step carefully.

  And the smell, of course. That, too, was the same. A small herd of dairy cows, a yearly litter of pigs, the goats for milk and weed control. The one still in the pen with her had a big bell around its neck. She would bet there was another one out wandering the property, eating around the edges of the cleared areas but never too far from the leafy green alfalfa dinner serving.

  Beh-eh-eh. That was Rio’s voice in her head where it had no right to be. Kimmer scowled and pushed away the large brown goat currently nibbling on the edge of her borrowed jacket. “Stupid,” she muttered at it, and couldn’t have said which of them she was talking to. But she kept her voice low, for not so long ago a goonboy in garage coveralls and greasy hands had wandered out here to relieve himself and to walk what must have been a habitual perimeter, judging by the worn scuff of a path he followed. A multipurpose goonboy.

  She looked beyond the barn to that which made this property utterly unlike the small farm on which she’d grown up. The huge Quonset building, shiny metal through the leaves. Ugly in shape, ugly in color…a big human blotch upon the land. As was the junk lining the sides. Hank’s scrap and scrounge business must have been going strong even before the BGs spo
tted him as a likely mark for their chop shop location.

  She doubted they’d realized that Hank’s world was so entirely about Hank that he’d kill one of them and then convince himself he could get away with it by waving his troublesome sister in front of their eyes. But she’d played the part of distraction long enough. It was time to put an end to this thing. If that meant putting an end to the goonboss, all the better.

  Especially since she doubted she could dig her own way out of this trouble—with the cops, with Owen—without that big payoff.

  Against her hip, something vibrated. Cell phone. Normally in a pocket, but she’d loaded every pocket she had with every weapon she could fit and had resorted to her belt clip for the phone. SmartCarry holding the .38, the trooper’s Glock in a back pocket and good only for the remaining bullets, her club and toothpick knife and brass knuckles, a small stun gun and a larger knife strapped to her jeans at the outside of her calf. Loaded for goonboy. Kimmer pushed the goat’s questing nose away from her back and retrieved the phone, flipping it open to check the caller ID and more than a little smug at the full charge the battery carried.

  Rio.

  For once she wished the phone wasn’t enhanced, so technologically spiffy. It told her quite bluntly that Rio was at Full Cry Winery. She couldn’t even pretend that he might be on his way. That she wouldn’t be alone in this.

  Not a chance. For one thing, she’d told him not to come—to stay with his family. For another, there was no way he could get back down this far unless he’d suddenly taken up piloting his own small plane. He’d taken two days to get up there, being careful of his back so he could still be of some good to them when he got there. Under most circumstances he was the same strong, deceptively capable man she’d thought him when she’d first seen him at the little roadside gas station last fall. Taller than most who considered themselves tall, striking of feature and build…and yet he’d carried himself so casually, so relaxed. He’d taken her by surprise when he’d easily handled one of the men sent after his cousin Carolyne. Quick and decisive and effective…and then, when he’d taken his cousin in hand, right back to easygoing. But soon enough Kimmer had learned he paid a price for those moments of chivalry. That he’d always pay that price, as little fuss as he made about it.

  And quite suddenly she missed him—fiercely, as she seemed to feel everything these recent days. She wished he were here.

  But she couldn’t talk to him. She couldn’t let it mess with her head…and she couldn’t risk being overheard. She’d let voice mail pick up—which it did even as she made the decision, telling her just how long she’d been lost in thought. Stupid. Not alert to her surroundings, not even aware of the—

  Goat.

  She snatched her hand back too late. The goat targeted the phone, all grab and no finesse, knocking Kimmer back a step in the muck. It lifted its head to that cocky angle goats seemed born to assume, staring at her with its eerie light brown eyes, rectangular pupils distinct…phone clenched in its jaws.

  “Give that back!” she snarled at it, a phrase most goats heard from kidhood. Still staring at her with its accusing, indignant gaze, the goat gave a quick sideways chew, determined the phone to be of no interest and dropped it in the muck. Kimmer waved her hands in its face and it bounded away, lifting its tail to drop a few fresh pellets in its wake.

  Gingerly, Kimmer plucked the phone from the nastiness in which it resided. No need to worry if the muck had wrecked it; the goat had done that for her. Cracked and nonresponsive, the phone display flickered once and went out for good.

  No phone.

  She felt the urge to close her eyes and mutter a few good strong anti-goat invectives, but resigned herself to the situation, bouncing back as she ever had. If she had to retreat and find a pay phone, she would—supposing it didn’t rain and bog her Miata down in the back pasture where she’d stashed it. Doesn’t matter. I’ll make it work. I won’t give up. Giving up was a luxury she’d never had.

  Kimmer lured the goat back over with a few greens plucked from beyond the pen, and wiped the phone off on its coat. She couldn’t leave the phone here to be found, but didn’t want any residual smell to give away her presence. Once she left the pen, she’d rub her shoes off with grass. For now, she tucked the phone away on its clip and sighed.

  Well. The battery was still charged.

  Chapter 12

  When she’d watched long enough from the barn area to assure herself there was currently only one man hanging out at the Quonset hut, Kimmer moved in to take a closer look. One goonboy…didn’t make sense. If such limited manpower was SOP, then no one could have witnessed Hank’s crime; he could have dumped the body elsewhere and avoided direct suspicion. And if this chop shop handled the kind of volume that would attract a goonboss like the one who’d had five men to spare first on Hank and then Kimmer, then one man couldn’t handle the load.

  She needed to know more.

  A careful inspection of the Quonset interior through one of several small, dirty windows showed her lots of empty space, and a tiny corner office area that was much neater than she’d expected. She managed to confirm the single goonboy theory—as well as the supposition that it wasn’t always like this. Not given the equipment inside, given the gear. He probably just handled cleanup and small jobs in between larger shipments. Caddy Escalade, Dodge Stratus, Jeep Wrangler…the popular targets.

  She’d have to come back later. Or not. It depended on what it took to extricate Hank from this situation—or whether he was truly in the danger she thought he was in. It depended on whether she had the opportunity to follow through, to find the goonboss and redeem herself.

  If redemption was even possible.

  It won’t be the end of the world. Just because her life with Hunter was the only thing she’d known since leaving home. She’d been valuable to them as a precocious fifteen-year-old, valuable enough to mentor and train. Now she had that training, and she still had the knack that had drawn Hunter to her in the first place.

  She’d find another situation if she had to.

  But for now she took one last look around the building, as much as could be had through the dirty window. Paint tents, a whole row of work bays, slick rolling tool caddies, a parking area, a solidly graveled approach drive not quite big enough for a truck. That meant they had goonboy-wannabe drivers, grabbing a hundred bucks or so to deliver the cars to their distribution points. Possibly even the same people who stole the cars in the first place.

  It meant any number of people might descend on this place at any given time, and Kimmer had no idea when that might be.

  Hank’s wife might know.

  Hank’s wife was the next step in any event.

  The house sat closer to the road, at the end of a curving, rutted drive that made this property an excellent choice for the goonboss. How had they approached Hank? Posing as door-to-door evangelists, scoping out the options? Maybe in a bar—no doubt Hank was a known fixture in several. It was even possible that the conniving weasel-boy had gone out looking for connections.

  Doesn’t matter. Kimmer had to clean it up, no matter how it had gotten dirty in the first place.

  The house had an abandoned look, and Kimmer glanced at her watch. The kids wouldn’t be home from school yet, not quite. She’d expected a dog—something scruffy and ill-tempered, chained where it could give good warning of her approach—but found only an empty scrap-built doghouse and an upside-down food bowl.

  He’d had a dog, and they’d made him get rid of it. Too much noise, Kimmer guessed. Too much declaration of their presence, their comings and goings. Now they probably made do with the goat.

  Rural detritus littered the area around the house. An old torn screen, bent T-posts, a headless doll…Kimmer watched where she put her feet. No one popped out of the front door or the back to challenge her, and the wraparound porch kept her from gaining a clear idea of the interior. Once she had a decent understanding of the interior layout, and once her presence failed
to scare up any goonboys, she hesitated in the overgrown landscaping long enough to be certain no one was inconveniently turning up the driveway, and then she went and knocked on the front door. A nice, firm, no-nonsense knock. No skulking for her.

  Almost immediately she heard movement from within the house—but the door wasn’t as quick to open. She repeated the knock before the footsteps approached the front door, and then she stood back so the occupant—Hank or his wife, she hoped—could open the door. With fingers crossed against goonboys Kimmer had both her war club and the recently acquired Glock at the ready within the roomy pockets of her borrowed REI jacket. She loved REI. They made the best pockets.

  When the door opened, she found herself face-to-face with a woman taller than her—taller than Hank, for that matter, and clothed in a worn cutesy country sweatshirt that didn’t at all suit her demeanor. A woman with lank hair that caught a deep chestnut glint in the light of the early afternoon sun, and a face with features that looked as though they’d thickened instead of refined themselves over the years. A face with a belligerent, mistrusting undertone to its expression, and eyes that weren’t improved by their narrowed suspicion. A face that looked…

  Kimmer squinted back. The name, the features…they fell into place. “Susan Goldman!”

  The narrowed eyes widened, blinked. “Holy shit,” Susan said. “What the hell happened to that mess on your face?”

  Laser surgery. A wonderful thing. But Susan didn’t actually leave any room for Kimmer to respond before she added, “Hank wasn’t kidding when he said you’d changed.”

  Same to you, Kimmer thought. This woman had been in Hank’s high school class, and at that age had been an attractive girl—always a little coarse, but always carrying herself well. With pride.

  Being married to Hank had probably taken care of that.