The Lonesome Lawmen Trilogy

by Pauline Baird Jones

  Not still and alabaster white in a coffin in the ground.

  In a haze of painful pleasure, Dani did the zoo with them, but her soul did it with Meggie. When it was over, hugs were offered and gratefully accepted. The sweet, baby smells of the little ones, their wet, sugar-laced kisses smeared against her cheek, were manna in Dani’s wilderness.

  Dani fought back the urge to cling, to hold on tight and not let go when Jenny wrapped her thin arms around her neck and squeezed. Holding on didn’t work. You had to let go, even when your heart left, too.

  Resolutely solitary in the golden light of a lowering sun, she watched the little family make a meandering path across the parking lot, board a minivan, and drive away.

  Leaving her alone again.

  Her path stretch long and empty toward night. Her shoulders slumped, weary from the weight of returning fear.

  I do not ask to see, the distant scene,

  One step enough for me.

  One step. That would be a place to stay tonight. Okay. Then finish those chapters. Oh yeah, and don’t forget to respond to Matt, the oh-so-opinionated, Kirby.

  * * * *

  “Okay,” Matt straddled one of the chairs that circled the conference table, “let’s be more smart and less frustrated and try to find our witness before we all turn gray.”

  Alice, who had taken a seat on a small table off to one side, arched her carefully sculpted brows. “Funny she hasn’t turned herself in, especially after your well-reasoned request.”

  “Don’t mess with me, Alice. I’m not in the mood.” Matt hadn’t been in the mood for much since their abortive visit to the city zoo. That it had been a perfect day for a stroll merely added insult to injury. “We can’t wait for her to pick up her mail. Hayes is on the move. So let’s have your ideas, suggestions, intuitions. I’ll even accept revelations from God and hallucinations that aren’t drug induced.”

  His gaze swept the table, stopping briefly on each member of his team. Sebastian had chosen the chair at the table’s head, but lacked the authority to go with it without his computer keyboard. He shrugged and looked apologetic. Riggs straddled a chair just across from Matt and was using the chair back as a pillow. He did open his eyes long enough to look despairing. Henry was too restless to sit. He paced back and forth between the surveillance equipment and the table “smoking” a fountain pen and muttering to himself.

  With some reluctance, Matt angled his body to face Alice. She frowned into space and didn’t immediately realize she had his attention. When she did, she straightened and said uneasily, “What?”

  “Give us some of that famous women’s intuition, Alice,” Riggs muttered, relaxing an impossible inch more across his forearms. He covered a yawn by lifting his elbow, then added, “Or you could get us men some coffee?”

  This feeble jab in their friendly, ongoing battle of the sexes earned him a quick, resigned glance. “I’m fresh out of both, I’m afraid.”

  Matt rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Do we even know what Gwynne’s wearing right now?”

  “Probably not.” Alice lifted a sheet. “When she left Ryan’s she was wearing the Saks suit. When she walked away from church, she was wearing the Saks suit. But—”

  She didn’t have to finish. No one had arrived at the zoo wearing a Saks suit. They didn’t even know if she had gone to the zoo. They didn’t know squat.

  Matt didn’t like it. As Riggs had pointed out yesterday, she was a romance writer and they were the Marshals. This was not the way it was supposed to be.

  “I’ve got a description of her watch and shoes,” she offered with the same hopeful air she’d probably use giving sand to a thirsty man.

  “A watch and a pair of shoes. Why am I not excited? She could have already dumped them.”

  Alice’s smile showed some teeth. “Since you’re a man and couldn’t possibly understand the irresistible appeal of comfortable shoes, I’ll cut you some slack, Matt. It’s just—” She gave a frustrated sigh. “She’s not just changing her clothes. She’s changing herself.”

  Henry stopped his pacing and looked thoughtful. He liked to think he had a sensitive side. “She has done community theater back in the Big Easy, Matt.”

  “Then let’s find out what parts she’s played. Like I said, more brains, less frustration.” Matt had a thought. “Ryan mentioned some book—Alice?”

  “Lord of the Rings. We found it at the crime scene, remember?”

  Matt nodded. “I want to take a look at it. And her books. The ones she reads and the ones she writes. You’re a fan, Alice. You got copies?”

  “A new fan. I have one. Plan to get more.”

  “Fine. Plan to do it now. Make a list and give it to Henry. You don’t mind buying some romance novels, do you?” Henry obviously did, but he couldn’t say so without looking insensitive. “Check local bookstores. If you strike out there, try the library. The sun’s going down on day two, people. I want a lead before it comes up again.” He turned to Sebastian. “Speaking of leads, you got anything on any local acquaintances she might go to next?”

  Sebastian rubbed his bony chin. “Well, I got a long list of local people who are online. Having a little trouble deciding who she’d turn to. It’s not like we have time to call them all.”

  Matt looked at Alice. “Librarians? Writers? Booksellers?”

  Alice shrugged. “It’s a place to start. We can cross reference by hobbies, interests, occupation, eliminate the obviously non-compatibles.”

  “And level of contact,” Sebastian put in. “I can identify the ones she’s talked to a lot under her known identity. I should have something on any other identities from Boomer by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

  “Good. Go to it, people.” He leaned back in his chair as they filed out on their separate errands. He was the only one with nothing to do but think. Had she received his email? What would she do when she did?

  * * * *

  “Rushdie was right,” Hayes muttered, “our lives do teach us who we are. Even better, your life will teach me who you are, Dani Gwynne. Once it has, I’ll end it.”

  For a moment his temper had almost gotten away from him when his contact inside the police department had let him know too late for him to get Gwynne at Ryan’s house. He would have enjoyed doing her in the suburbs. He had always hated his parent’s milieu. Lucky for his snitch the Feds had gone away empty-handed, too.

  What would she do next, he wondered, fingering his knife in anticipation. It was an interesting problem. Absently he tested the blade, leaving a beaded, red trail along the edge of his finger. He sucked the cut as he read a photocopy of Gwynne’s file detailing her interest, among many others, in the Internet.

  The first thing Gwynne had done was turn to someone she’d met online. Quite a clever idea really. It added an interactive dimension to the hunt. If she stayed connected he could hunt her and talk to her. Assault her mind while he hunted her body.

  He turned to his computer and logged on to the Net. He had already arranged to read her email, to get any replies she sent. Now he read Kirby’s email with interest. How would she respond to its commanding tone? It would tell him a lot about her when she did. Then he would know how to act. Where to act. Another bead of red blood formed along the cut he had made on his finger, hovered briefly, then dropped onto the keyboard in a perfect, quivering circle.

  He smiled, thinking of her blood falling like rain. It would flow softly at first, but soon it would turn into a rushing red river sweeping her life away. Then the fire would lick at the river, swallowing red moisture in a flickering, healing flame. Heat made a shaft through his middle, quickening his breathing.

  His hands settled on keys slick with sweat and his own blood. Breath came in short, panting gasps as he formed his first words to her. In a sharp crescendo, he finished and sagged back in the chair, his thoughts centered on the two women in his life.

  Dani Gwynne. The one he had to kill.

  Willow. The one he had to love.

>   Soon he would have both where he wanted them.

  * * * *

  Dani exchanged her grandma attire for tattered jeans and a Stones tee shirt before approaching her next kindly stranger. The smart little hat was now a “gimme” variety put out by the Denver Nuggets, the briefcase replaced by a ratty back pack.

  With the sun beginning a hurried decline in the western sky, she studied the junk yard/garage combination across the street from her, then checked the address against the one on her print out. This was the place.

  She just hoped the stranger was more kindly than his digs.

  After hitching her back pack to a more comfortable spot on her shoulder, she crossed the dusty street and cautiously pushed the rusted door. She winced at the protest the sagging metal hinges made against movement, then slid through the gap. Before her eyes could adjust to the light change, her nose identified—and wrinkled against—a pungent mix of grease, paint, dust, beer and old sweat. Dani took a step back, then stopped. Retreat was not an option.

  “I’m closed,” a deep voice rumbled at her out of deep shadow. It took her a minute to separate the massive figure lovingly polishing a Harley-Davidson motorcycle from the shadowy chunks of equipment.

  “Meathook?”

  “Who wants to know?” He stood up, sending an already impressive shadow spreading across the cluttered floor.

  She grinned, recognizing the “voice” of her online friend, even if the figure wasn’t familiar. “I want to know.”

  He started toward her, getting bigger with each step. The meager light outlined each bulging muscle and the bush of a beard that obscured the lower half of his face.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  She held her ground. “Willow, that’s who.”

  “Willow? Internet Willow?” She nodded. Like a spring thaw, a smile cracked the severity of beard and face, splitting his battered face into less menacing lines. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  SEVEN

  Matt could tell from Alice’s demure expression as she wove her way between desks that she had more bad news for him. He stood up and stretched his back. It eased the painful kink from another long night spent in the office, made him feel like he was doing something besides pushing paper.

  “What?” What now, is what he meant.

  “Dani answered your email.” The amusement in her eyes told him it was personal.

  Matt looked past her. “I thought Sebastian was in charge of email?”

  “He was afraid.” Alice handed him the sheet, then put her hands on her hips, a look on her face that reminded him of his mother when she was about to deliver an improving lecture. “We’re all afraid of you, you know.”

  “Yeah, I noticed you shaking in your high-heeled shoes.” He unfolded the sheet. Under the usual email header gibberish were four words: I don’t think so.

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose. It didn’t bring enlightenment. “What does this mean?”

  Alice shrugged elegantly. “Uh, no…”

  Matt dropped into his chair, tossed the note onto the desk top, picked it up again and scowled at it for the sweep of a second hand, then threw it down again. “What’s her problem?”

  Alice looked amused. “Maybe you shouldn’t have told her to get her ass back in here.”

  “Why not?” He shoved his hands through his hair, trying not to tear it out. Didn’t have that much to spare and didn’t want to waste it on a capricious romance writer. “Don’t you think she should get in here?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “No. No buts. Right is right. Right?”

  “Not if she doesn’t know it. For Pete’s sake, Matt, she doesn’t know us from Neuman.” Alice sat down across from him, her expression sympathetic but still openly amused. “To her, we’re just a new set of Feds who may or may not get her killed.”

  He knew that. No, he didn’t. If he was feeling some weird connection, she should be, too. He rubbed his face. “I need coffee. Has anybody made any?”

  Alice started to get up, but Matt stopped her with a shake of his head. “I’ll get it.

  Wouldn’t want to be accused of committing a non-politically correct act. “Besides,” he stretched his back, twisting his shoulders left and right, “I could use the exercise.”

  It felt good to be in motion, however brief the duration. Back at his desk, he handed Alice a steaming cup, before settling in his chair again. His back protested, but subsided a bit after he’d downed half his mug. Calmer, he asked, “So how do we convince her we’re the good guys?”

  Alice took a careful sip before she said, “The good news is, Carolyn Ryan came down on our side. She emailed Gwynne shortly after we left.”

  “Let me see it.” Matt held out his hand, unease returning at the slight, though obvious, reluctance with which she handed it over. He read it. His brows arched. He looked at Alice.

  “Cute-assed Fed? Fine hunting hound dog? Is she talking about me?”

  Alice grinned. “I don’t think she’d call me a cute-assed Fed. And you do hunt people, Matt.”

  “I hunt a lot of things, but last time I looked I only had two legs and don’t howl—very often. What is this stuff?”

  He turned the sheet so Alice could see the strangely configured punctuation at the end of the letter: :-).

  Alice craned to look. “I wondered about that, too. Sebastian says it’s called a smiley.”

  “A what?” He barked the question at her.

  “A smiley. You have to tip your head to the side.”

  Matt’s eyes narrowed sharply.

  “Or not.” Alice got her grin under control before adding, “They’re called emoticons—emotional punctuation used to add emotion to plain text. Sebastian’s getting you a dictionary.”

  “There’s a whole dictionary of these things?” He leaned back. The one good thing about computers, in his opinion, was their total lack of emotion. So someone gets the bright idea to add emotion? What a world. “If being called a cute-assed Fed is the good news, what’s the bad news?”

  “Hayes has emailed Gwynne, too.”

  “What?” Matt straightened in his chair, but it wasn’t enough. He jumped up and paced to her side of the desk, grabbing the last sheet she had in her bag of tricks.

  Death hath many doors to let out life, Dani.

  Soon I’ll open yours and send you through.

  How are you sleeping nights?

  Still dreaming about me?

  “Nasty, isn’t it?” Alice said.

  “Not nice.” Urgency sent his heart racing. “Any indication she’s picked this up?”

  Alice shook her head. “And, no, we can’t stop her getting it. I already asked. Sebastian says that, based on Hayes’ record as a computer whiz, he’s probably reading her mail, too—including what we send her.” She hesitated. “We’re going to have to let her know our communications with her aren’t secure, Matt.”

  “Re-enforcing her belief that we can’t be trusted.” Matt leaned against the edge of his desk, thinking about Dani. About Hayes. Instead of a lover’s triangle, they were a killer’s triangle. The hit man, the Marshals’ tracker, and the romance writer, bound together by the greed and ambition of Richard Hastings, accused murderer with some still unknown tie to the mob. When the hit man was Jonathan Hayes, it was weird enough to make a guy wax philosophical. If he had the time or inclination for it. He looked at Alice. “Do it. Tell her Hayes is listening in. Hell, she’s probably already figured it out. Maybe we can get some points for honesty. You women like that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, we just love it,” Alice said dryly as she stood up, “especially when you’re so sincere about it.”

  “I don’t have time to be sincere. Have Riggs give a copy of this to Sebastian’s identity friend, what was his name?”

  “Boomer Edison?”

  “Yeah, him. Maybe he can find Hayes out there, too.” He crossed round to his chair and leaned back, steepling his hands into a triangle. As Alice walked away, he brought two point
s of his triangle together. The action pushed the last point away. Good thing he didn’t get off on symbolism or believe in bad omens.

  Riggs poked his head in long enough to say, “Boomer Edison called. Says he’ll have something for us right after lunch.”

  Matt nodded, leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head and rocking the chair in time with his thoughts.

  See, no good or bad omens. Just patient hard work by people following a time-proven process. He could do patient. He picked up a report and leaned back, his body carefully relaxed in the chair.

  His fingers, in pointed defiance, beat impatiently against the arm rest.

  * * * *

  “Mornin’.” Meathook filled the doorway of his bedroom from frame to frame and then some. His eyes were still groggy, his body stripped down to a pair of hip-hugging leather pants that left his massive chest bare—though bare wasn’t the best description for something so furry. He was a walking, talking biker-with-a-heart-of-gold cliché—something Dani usually tried to avoid in her life and her fiction. He was also a nice guy, who had done two tours in Vietnam, lost a child to death, his wife to denial of that death and dealt with it all by writing nonsense rhymes for children. A stereotype with a twist, she thought. She needed him, his innate goodness, more than she needed her soda or M&Ms. Though she was happy that his house had both.

  He roughed up his beard and stretched. “Thought you’d still be getting your Z’s.”

  She hadn’t slept much, but it was easier to agree than explain she’d finished her chapters and cruised the Internet most of the night. “Been checking my email.”

  And wishing she hadn’t done that part. She lay against his mama’s Naugahyde couch, her lap top with Dark Lord’s email still on the screen resting on her knees, her feet resting on the scarred, biker magazine-buried coffee table. On one side was a purple lava lamp, on the other a full size street sign from Las Vegas. In front of her, a fake fireplace mantel covered with an array of photos that started with a wrinkled newborn and stopped with a bright-eyed little boy of seven.