A Marriage To Remember

by Cathryn Clare

  The word fugitive had a grim sound to it. But that’s exactly what Ryder was, Jayne realized.

  Iverson was underscoring the fact. “He’s in violation of his parole, if nothing else,” he told her. “He’s stolen a car. He’s wanted for questioning by the FBI in connection with the death of a federal agent. This is all serious stuff. And much as I want to see him safe, I can’t step outside the law. Ryder may have done that, but—”

  “All right.” She’d known there was a possibility he would react this way. And a part of her knew he had a point. What chance did Ryder have if he insisted on standing against the whole world? How could she—or Greg, or anyone—help him if he refused to bend even a little?

  Iverson seemed to be reading her thoughts. “As long as the two of you stay out there, you’re both fair game,” he said. “Nobody can help you if you’re in hiding.”

  She thought fast. She and Ryder had agreed on a plan of action earlier this morning, but things weren’t working out as they’d hoped. A part of her said, You need to regroup and think this through again.

  But another part—the part that was still reeling with hurt from the way Ryder had cut himself off from her this morning—had different ideas. If Ryder could make unilateral decisions, she thought, then so could she. He wouldn’t like it, but she didn’t want to waste the single opportunity they might have to enlist some official support.

  “What can you do for us, then?” she asked Greg bluntly. “If Ryder comes in, what can you do to guarantee his safety?”

  “I thought you said he wasn’t coming in.”

  It was an effort not to turn her eyes toward the kitchen door. If she glanced that way, would she see Ryder’s wary blue gaze raking the room?

  She could almost feel him watching her, could almost hear his deep voice telling her she was making a mistake.

  She straightened her shoulders and kept her eyes on Greg Iverson’s tanned, handsome face. “What he says and what I say may not be the same thing,” she said. “Come on, Greg. I’m trying to find some middle ground here. If Ryder comes in, what can you do for him?”

  She could see him turning over the possibilities in his mind. Iverson had always been a quick thinker, a born politician, Jayne had often mused. Next to him, Ryder seemed half-tamed, rough and blunt and plainspoken.

  And so stubborn that even the people who loved him most had a hard time getting too close. She had no idea what had made him that way, or why he’d retreated farther and farther into that solitary shell the longer they’d been married. But she didn’t want to watch that obstinate isolation of his land him in trouble so deadly he might not survive—not if there was something she could do to prevent it.

  “I can make sure he gets a top-flight lawyer, for one thing,” Greg was saying.

  Jayne nodded. “That’s a start,” she said. “That guy the police department hired to defend him was worse than useless.”

  “I know. I assume you’d want some kind of safe house to be part of the deal—”

  She nodded again. “Arranged through the FBI, not the Miami police,” she said. “In fact, if you can guarantee the police wouldn’t have anything to do with it—”

  Iverson looked doubtful. “Tricky,” he said. “That would be tricky.”

  “No trickier than explaining the situation to me if Ryder happens to get shot while he’s supposedly safely in custody.”

  She’d spoken more heatedly than she’d intended. She saw Greg Iverson’s eyes narrow at her tone.

  “Anyone would think you were still in love with him, Jayne.” He didn’t sound particularly pleased by the idea. “I thought you said you were over him.”

  “I was. I mean, I am. I definitely am.” She waved her own words away. These were dangerous currents, and she didn’t want to let herself get pulled into them. “All I want is to wrap this up, with Ryder in one piece and whatever is happening in the police department exposed,” she said.

  “And if Ryder’s a part of it?”

  Her heart gave a little lurch she couldn’t control. She felt as though she’d lived a year in the last twenty-four hours. And yet she was no closer to knowing whether Ryder was innocent or guilty. It was as though everything that happened opened more unresolved questions, more old wounds.

  Frustration sharpened her voice as she said, “I don’t care if he’s a part of it. I just want to know what’s happening.”

  Her answer seemed to satisfy Iverson. “Fair enough,” he said. “All right, let me make some calls and see what I can do in the way of rustling up a decent criminal lawyer. It’s still early to be waking people on a Sunday, but—”

  He was halfway to his feet, already sliding out of the booth, when the swinging door from the kitchen banged open and Ryder slammed through it.

  At first, Jayne was too startled to register anything but the focused intensity of his gaze. Had he overheard their conversation somehow? Was he reacting to her suggestion that he might cut some kind of a deal?

  She didn’t have a chance to find out. He crossed the little diner in a few long strides and took hold of her hand, pulling her toward him.

  “Come on,” he said tightly. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “Ryder—”

  He shook his head. She could feel the tension in his grip. “There’s no time to talk,” he said. “Somebody’s onto us.”

  “That’s impossible.” Under his tan, Greg Iverson’s face was suddenly pale. “I swear, nobody followed me.”

  “Nothing’s impossible.” Ryder was moving toward the rear exit, propelling Jayne with him. Iverson was following, but reluctantly, glancing through the front windows as though he couldn’t believe what Ryder had said.

  Jayne believed it. After their two hair-raisingly close encounters with death yesterday, she wasn’t about to second-guess Ryder’s instincts. If he’d noticed something...

  She stayed close to him as they hurried through the busy kitchen. She saw the cook glaring at them as he poured batter onto the griddle in front of him.

  “I said no shooting,” he warned them.

  Ryder shook his dark blond head. “Buddy, nobody wants shooting less than I do,” he replied.

  Jayne kept her voice low. “What did you see?” she asked.

  “The same car cruising by four times in ten minutes.”

  Iverson was right on their heels. “That doesn’t necessarily mean—” Ryder stopped short at the back door of the diner, glaring at the man who’d been his friend. “If I’d been thinking that way yesterday, I’d be dead by now,” he said. “And probably Jayne would be, too.”

  It was enough to silence Iverson’s protests. He came to a halt next to them, looking serious and determined.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Whatever happens, we’ve got to keep Jayne safe.”

  For an instant, Jayne paused and looked at the two of them, wondering what had made two such different men friends for all these years.

  Everything about Greg—his jet-black hair, his straight-from-the-racket-club physique—was sleek, controlled, polished. His jeans were freshly creased, his yellow polo shirt tucked into his waistband and held there by an expensive-looking black and silver belt.

  He was a civilized man, she thought. A successful man, who’d learned to make the system work for him. An insider.

  By contrast, Ryder had always been a loner, even as he’d worked his way through the ranks of the police department. And he looked the part as he strode toward the back door of the little beachside diner.

  His clothes were rumpled, as Jayne’s were, from having been slept in. He’d refastened the elastic that pulled his hair back from his face, and it made his high cheekbones look even more prominent, his eyes even warier. There were storm clouds in those dark blue depths, and a kind of buried turmoil Jayne had never seen in Greg Iverson’s brown stare.

  They were like day and night, she thought. The one thing they had in common—had always had in common—was Jayne. And their shared concern for her now was
making them move with a unified urgency.

  Ryder pushed open the screen door at the back of the kitchen. “It’s a maroon coupe with two men in it,” he said. “If it’s making the same circuit—and after four trips, I’m pretty sure it will be—it’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

  He had to raise his voice to be heard over the beeping of a dump truck backing into the parking lot. Iverson was nodding as they all moved onto the diner’s small back porch.

  “And when they don’t see Jayne and me in the window—”

  “They’ll come looking. Think you can divert them?”

  “I’ll do my best.” Iverson was reaching for his keys. “If somebody tailed me up here, they presumably know my car. If I can get them to follow me a few blocks—”

  “That should do it.”

  Iverson was already jogging toward the front of the diner, where he’d left his shiny blue BMW. Ryder was digging his own keys out of the pocket of his jeans.

  Only Jayne was looking toward the car Ryder had stolen.

  “There’s just one problem,” she said.

  The beeping dump truck they’d heard had backed all the way into the lot now. And its driver was getting out to hook it up to the diner’s Dumpster—which just happened to be right next to Jayne and Ryder’s car.

  The blue sedan was completely boxed in. And judging by the slow pace of the truck driver’s motions, there was going to be no good way to hurry the process up.

  “Oh, hell.” Ryder took hold of Jayne’s elbow and started after Greg Iverson. “Looks like we go with plan B.”

  “Do we have a plan B?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  It ended up being less of a plan than a last-minute scramble. As they rounded the comer onto the street that ran perpendicular to the beach, Jayne heard Ryder call, “That’s them, sitting at the traffic light.”

  Iverson’s car was parked at the curb. He aimed his remote control at it and Jayne heard the door locks snap open.

  “You were right,” Ryder said at her ear as they ran the last few steps to the car. “Those yuppie toys are the way to go.”

  The three of them slid into the BMW just as the light changed and the maroon car started gliding toward them.

  “Step on it,” Ryder said, and Iverson obliged. Maybe, if they hurried, they could get out of sight before the two men in the maroon car noticed that Jayne and Iverson were no longer in the diner. If they were lucky—

  They weren’t quite lucky enough. Jayne heard Iverson curse as tires squealed behind them. Her heart seemed to slam into her throat as she realized the danger they’d managed to elude last night was suddenly snapping at their heels again.

  She wasn’t sure whether she’d grabbed Ryder’s hand or he’d grabbed hers. Their fingers locked together as the car swayed around a corner and onto the busy beachside street.

  She could see Ryder fighting his own impatience. He was gripping the headrest, obviously wishing fiercely that he was the one in the driver’s seat.

  “If you cut in ahead of that van—”

  “There’s not time.” Iverson’s knuckles were white as he clasped the steering wheel.

  “Then make time, damn it.” Ryder’s words barely got out through his clenched teeth.

  Jayne wasn’t sure Iverson even heard them. He kept glancing in his rearview mirror, nervously moving his right hand from wheel to gearshift and back again.

  She remembered the hell-bent-for-leather way Ryder had managed to outdistance the white pickup truck yesterday at the mall. His right foot was tapping on the light blue carpet in the back seat, as though he was trying to speed things up to a pace that suited him.

  “I think they missed us.” Iverson’s eyes flicked to the rearview again. “I don’t think they caught us at the turn.”

  “Then they’ll probably catch us at the next one.” Ryder’s face was pale now, too. Jayne wondered how his ribs had fared in that headlong dive into the back seat of the BMW. “Look, if you don’t want to drive this thing, how about letting someone etse—”

  “Cool your jets, all right, Ryder?” Iverson sounded angry. “You’re not the one in charge here, so just—”

  “The hell I’m not.”

  Iverson had slowed the car as they approached a yellow light. Without letting go of Jayne’s hand, Ryder leaned over and opened the door beside her. She could feel the strength of his body leaning into her, and the force of his impatience as he kicked the door wide.

  “Hey!” Iverson had noticed what was happening. “You can‘t—”

  “Watch me.”

  It was like being picked up by a hurricane and carried out to sea. Ryder swept one long arm around Jayne’s shoulders as he pushed his way out of the car. Before she could argue, he was propelling her toward the beach, stumbling a little over the sand-covered boardwalk, carrying her with him away from their best hope of safety.

  “Ryder, this is crazy.” She struggled against the weight of his arm, but he had a firm hold on her shoulder and he was moving fast, sidestepping sunbathers and playing children. “Let me go—you’re out of your mind.”

  “Iverson’s out of his mind, if he thinks those guys are about to give up so easily.” There was a stiff breeze off the ocean. His words whipped by her almost before she’d heard them. “Sticking with him is the best way to get ourselves killed.”

  “Sticking with him is—ow!” She tripped and nearly lost her balance as the toe of her pump caught on a piece of wood half-buried in the sand. Only Ryder’s strong grip kept her upright.

  Behind her she could hear Greg Iverson calling her name. He must be out of the car and following them, she thought. Maybe if she dragged her heels—if she could just get Ryder to listen to sense for once—

  It all happened so quickly that she barely had time to register it.

  One moment she was looking over her shoulder to Greg’s blue BMW parked at the curb. The next instant it had turned into a fireball that mushroomed out with a force that nearly knocked her to her knees again.

  She saw Greg pitch forward, and heard people screaming. Tires howled along the length of the street, and suddenly the whole beach was in chaos.

  Her first impulse was to turn back, to see whether Greg was all right. But Ryder’s pace never flagged. He was heading for the boat pier, refusing to let Jayne’s hesitation slow him down.

  “Ryder, wait—”

  He shook his head. “That was probably a bullet in the gas tank,” he said, his voice grim. “The second one’ll be for us, if we don’t get the hell out of here.”

  It took her a moment to realize what he intended to do. The pier was lined with motorboats, but all the owners were staring at the explosion, at the billowing cloud of smoke and twisted bits of metal that had been Greg Iverson’s shiny car only a few seconds ago.

  She saw people running toward the boardwalk, shouting to each other, waving their arms. She and Ryder were probably the only two people on the beach not looking toward the flaming car, she thought.

  Or were the two men from the maroon car standing back there somewhere, guns at the ready, searching for Jayne and Ryder among the panicked crowds of weekend beachgoers?

  Suddenly, getting the hell out of there seemed like a very good idea.

  Ducking low as Ryder was doing, as though bullets were already whizzing over their heads, she followed him onto the pier and down the ladder leading to the first motorboat that had keys in the ignition.

  She was already casting off the ropes as Ryder gunned the engine. There was a horrible familiarity about the scene, except no one was yelling at them to stop this time.

  In fact, no one seemed to notice them at all as they spun away from the pier and out toward the open sea.

  Chapter 8

  The sun had climbed high above the ocean. Ryder shielded his eyes from the glare on the water and called to Jayne, “How much farther to that inlet?”

  She was sitting in the bow of the boat, studying the map they’d found stashed in the sm
all storage hatch. “Three or four miles,” she said.

  “Good.”

  “What did you say?”

  Between the noise of the engine and the wind whistling off the Atlantic, talking was nearly impossible. Ryder shook his head. “Never mind,” he shouted. “Just keep watching the shore.”

  He’d steered well away from the beach at first, concerned only with getting them out of the range of gunfire. He had no idea whether their escape had gone unnoticed. And he’d managed to choose a boat with an ailing motor—the thing had taken to coughing intermittently, making him wonder whether it was going to strand them out here.

  After almost an hour, though, the motor was still running. And Ryder was certain by now that no one was on their tail. Gradually, cautiously, he’d been piloting the boat back toward shore, blending in with the other pleasure craft dotting the seacoast on this sunny Sunday morning.

  There’d been no chance to talk, not yet. And Jayne seemed to be keeping her distance, anyway. She’d busied herself looking in the storage bins, finding towels, life preservers, insect repellent and the map that gave Ryder some idea where the hell they were on the coastline.

  He wasn’t fooled by Jayne’s apparently businesslike air as she’d seated herself in the bow, well away from where he was standing at the steering wheel.

  She looked wary, guarded, as though the danger that was stalking Ryder might somehow be clinging to him even a mile out to sea.

  Or maybe it was another kind of danger she was worried about.

  When he thought about how their encounter in the motel cabin had ended this morning—when he remembered the soft hurt in her face and the way she’d pressed her palm to her mouth...

  Well, he couldn’t blame her for being distant now.

  But her remoteness still stung more sharply than he liked to admit.

  He’d already decided to head for the Intracoastal Waterway. The narrow navigable strip of water lay just inland, sheltered from the roughness of the ocean. Aside from the sputtering motor, their boat was too small to venture much farther into open water, and now that they’d shaken off their pursuers, Ryder knew they would be wise to head for calmer waters.