by Tami Hoag
He'd almost lost her. Again. Forever. The idea struck him with the force of a hammer to the solar plexus about every five minutes. He'd almost lost her in part because he hadn't been able to see right in front of him the monster he was supposed to know as well as any man on earth.
“Hey, pretty,” he said. He dropped his bags on the ground, took her into his arms, and kissed her—not in a sexual way, but in a way that gave them both comfort. The hardhat tipped back on her head and fell off, letting her hair cascade down her back. “How's it going?”
“It sucks. I hate it,” she said plainly, Kate-style. “I liked my house. I liked my stuff. I had to start over once. I don't want to have to do it again. But life says, ‘Tough bounce,' and what are my options? Take it on the chin and keep marching.”
She gave a shrug and broke eye contact. “Better than the deal Angie got. Or Melanie Hessler.”
Quinn took her stubborn chin in his hand and turned her face back to his. “Are you beating yourself up, Kathryn Elizabeth?”
She nodded and let him wipe the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.
“So am I,” he confessed, and found a wry smile. “We're a pair. Think how great the world would be if you and I really did control it.”
“We'd do a better job of it than whoever has the job now,” she promised, then shivered. “Or I'd blow it, and people I cared about would get hurt.”
“Well, here's an ugly rumor I heard today: We're only human. Mistakes come with the territory.”
Kate knitted her brow. “Human?” She took his hand and led him to the old weathered cedar garden bench. “You and I? Who told you that? Let me go melt their brain with death rays.”
They sat, and his arm automatically went around her shoulders, just as her head automatically found his shoulder.
“Hey, you. You're early,” she said.
“Well, I didn't want to miss Turkey Wake,” he said, deadpan. “Happy to see me?”
“Not after that answer.”
He laughed and brushed a kiss against her temple. They sat in silence for another few minutes, staring at the blackened back door of the house where Quinn and Kovac had carried her out.
“I came back here and built this very specific life,” Kate said softly. “Thinking if I did it that way, I could have control of it, and bad things wouldn't happen. How's that for naive?”
Quinn shrugged. “I thought if I could grab my world by the balls, I could ride all the demons out of it. But it doesn't work that way. There's always another demon. I can't count them all anymore. I can't keep them straight. Hell, I can't even see them right in front of me.”
Kate could hear the hint of desperation underlying the toughness, and knew his faith in his abilities had been shaken too. The Mighty Quinn. Always right, always sure, moving forward like an arrow. She had always loved his unfailing strength, had always admired his bullheadedness. She loved him as much for his vulnerability.
“No one saw this coming, John. I hated the guy from the day he took the job, and not even I suspected this. We see what we expect to see. Scary, considering what can lie beneath the surface.”
She stared at the garden, dead and brown, surreal in the fading light. “Imagine the most horrific, repulsive cruelty one human being can commit against another. Someone's out there doing it right now. I don't know how you stand it anymore, John.”
“I don't,” he admitted. “You know how it is when you first come on the job? Everything gets to you. You have to toughen up. You have to get that emotional armor on. Then you reach a point when you've seen so much, nothing gets to you, and you start to wonder about your humanity. Stay at it long enough, the armor starts to corrode, the evil starts to eat through it, and you're back where you started, only you're older and tired, and you know you can't slay all the dragons no matter how hard you try.”
“And then what?” Kate asked quietly.
“And then you either step aside, or you eat your gun, or you drop in your tracks like Vince Walsh.”
“On the surface that choice would seem like a no-brainer.”
“Not when the job is all you've got. When you bury yourself in it because you're too afraid to go and get the life you really want. Portrait of me for the last five years,” he said. “No more. As of today, I am officially on leave. Time to drain the strain, get my head screwed on straight.”
“Decide what you want,” Kate offered to the list.
“I know what I want,” he said simply.
He turned to her on the bench and took her hands in his. “I need something good in my life, Kate. I need something beautiful and warm. I need you. I need us. What do you need?”
Kate looked at him, her destroyed home in her peripheral vision, and thought, of all things, of the phoenix rising from the ashes. The events that had brought them to this place in this time may have been devastating, but here was their chance for a new beginning. Together.
For the first time in five years she felt a sense of warm, sweet peace in place of the hard, aching emptiness she'd grown almost numb to. She had spent the years without him, merely existing. It was time to live. After all the death, literal and metaphorical, it was time for both of them to live.
“I need your arms around me, John Quinn,” she said, smiling softly. “Every day and every night of my life.”
Quinn let out a pent-up breath, a grin splitting his handsome face. “Took you long enough to answer.”
He took her into his arms carefully, mindful of her wounds, and held her close. He imagined he could feel her heart beat even through the heavy canvas of her coat.
“You've got my heart, Kate Conlan,” he said, burying his cold nose in the thick silk of her hair. “You've had it all this time. I lived too long without it.”
Kate smiled against his chest, knowing this was home—his embrace, his love.
“Well, tough, John Quinn,” she said, gazing up at him in the last light of sunset. “I'm not giving it back.”
BANTAM BOOKS BY TAMI HOAG
DARK HORSE
DUST TO DUST
ASHES TO ASHES
A THIN DARK LINE
GUILTY AS SIN
NIGHT SINS
DARK PARADISE
CRY WOLF
STILL WATERS
LUCKY'S LADY
SARAH'S SIN
MAGIC
And coming soon in hardcover
KILL THE MESSENGER
Praise for the bestsellers of
TAMI HOAG
DARK HORSE
“A thriller as tightly wound as its heroine . . . Hoag has created a winning central figure in Elena . . . Bottom line: Great ride.”—People
This is her best to date . . . [a] tautly told thriller.” —Minneapoils Star-Tribune
“Hoag proves once again why she is considered a queen of the crime thriller.” —Charleston Post & Courier
“A tangled web of deceit and double-dealing makes for a fascinating look into the wealthy world of horses juxtaposed with the realistic introspection of one very troubled ex-cop. A definite winner.” —Booklist
“Anyone who reads suspense novels regularly is acquainted with Hoag's work—or certainly should be. She's one of the most consistently superior suspense and romantic suspense writers on today's bestseller lists. A word of warning to readers: don't think you know whodunit 'til the very end.” —The Facts (Clute, TX)
“Suspense, shocking violence, and a rip-roaring conclusion—this novel has all the pulse-racing touches that put Tami Hoag books on bestseller lists and crime fans' reading lists.” —The Advocate Magazine (Baton Rouge, LA)
' “Full of intrigue, glitter, and skullduggery . . . [Hoag] is a master of suspense.” —Publishers Weekly “Her best to date, an enjoyable read, and a portent of even better things to come.” —The Grand Rapids Press
“A complex cerebral puzzle that will keep readers on the edge until all the answers are revealed.” —The Midwest Book Review
“To say that Tami Hoag is the absolu
te best at what she does is a bit easy since she is really the only person who does what she does. . . . It is testament to Hoag's skill that she is able to go beyond being skillful and find the battered hearts in her characters, and capture their beating on the page. . . . A superb read.” —Detroit News & Free Press
DUST TO DUST
“Compelling and expertly told. Plot lines smolder and ignite as the suspense builds. The result leaves . . . the reader scorched.” —USA Today
“[This] wintry tale of crime and punishment packs a powerful thrill. Bottom line: Good cops + bad cops = killer suspense.” —People (Page-turner of the week, starred review)
“Dust to Dust breathes new life into the old good cop vs. bad cop genre. . . . A roller-coaster ride of a thriller that will leave fans awaiting the next installment.” —New York Post
“Sharp dialogue and an unusual plot make this a highly engaging outing for Hoag.” —Chicago Tribune
“Practice must make perfect after all because Tami Hoag . . . just keeps getting better. . . . Hoag not only develops her characters, she also thickens the plot with every chapter, until there is no alternative but to keep turning those pages.” —The Orlando Sentinel
“As a master of complex plots, Hoag is adept at faking readers into thinking they've figured out what's happened, only to shatter their theories. Dust to Dust continues the tradition.” —Fort Worth Star-Telegram
“In this well-crafted thriller, Hoag sets a complex plot in motion and gives it a powerful, emotional center.” —Minneapolis Star-Tribune
ASHES TO ASHES
“Hoag has more or less taken over the serial killer genre all by herself.” —Chicago Tribune
“You'll want to lock the doors while you're reading. . . . Hoag does her homework and gets the details right in this creepy story. . . . Powerful.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune
“An up-all-night read.” —The Detroit News
“[A] detail-packed thriller . . . The Silence of the Lambs comes to mind more than once.” —Entertainment Weekly
“[A] compelling . . . startling story.” —Chicago Sun-Times
“Hoag has a way of sneaking up on the reader in superior thriller tradition. . . . She neatly side- steps the graphic crudeness of some of her competitors, while still providing enough surprise twists and stomach-turning carnage to satisfy any heebie-jeebie enthusiast.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Absorbing . . . always interesting . . . Once again, Hoag doesn't disappoint.” —New York Post
“Promises to keep readers up reading into the night. . . . A lot of bang for the buck.” —Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
“Chilling . . . Patricia Cornwell wrote thrillers that had readers turning the pages until 3 a.m. Now Hoag is keeping readers up all hours.” —Sun-Sentinel (Fort Lauderdale, FL)
“If ‘page turner' is a term too easily used, Ms. Hoag has restored its legitimacy. Her stories shock us, shake us, take us to the darkest edges of criminal conduct.” —The Cincinnati Enquirer
“We who know a little about Tami Hoag's novels lock the doors, grab a bowl of popcorn, and settle down for an often unsettling read. With Ashes, we need to look over our shoulders every chapter or so because the evil therein gathers momentum with every move a serial killer makes.” —The Detroit News
“This is a winning psychological thriller that will attract fans of Thomas Harris.” —Booklist
A THIN DARK LINE
“A Thin Dark Line is chilling, it's atmospheric, it's even romantic; but the novel's best achievement is its making readers constantly interrogate their ideas about justice and revenge, their own presumptions of guilt and innocence.” —US magazine
“This mystery defies you to put it down, and when you're done you're damn glad you didn't.” —Detroit News & Free Press
“Hoag deftly demonstrates that the search for truth is rarely straightforward. Important clues are cunningly buried, and the book's tension is as sustained as it is palpable.” —Chicago Tribune
“With a flair for dialect and regional atmosphere, Hoag captures the essence of the Cajun family and working relationships while injecting suspense and heart-pounding terror into a violent tangle of justice, innocence, treachery, and public opinion. A thoroughly engrossing read.” —Booklist
“Hoag has evolved into a fine thriller writer. [She] displays a firm grasp on locale [and] there's plenty of suspense in waiting to see how it will all resolve. Psychopathic villains are common enough, but Hoag has managed to endow hers with a scarred entourage that provides a tragic note.” —Publishers Weekly
“Hoag is always a good gritty read.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Hoag writes big, full stories with complex characters and situations. She doesn't shrink from the raw side of crime and the dark side of human nature.” —The Cincinnati Post
Look for
TAMI HOAG'S
exciting novels of suspense
DARK HORSE
available in June 2004
in paperback
and
KILL THE
MESSENGER
available in July 2004
in hardcover
Read on for previews.
DARK HORSE
by TAMI HOAG
On sale June 2004
LIFE CAN CHANGE in a heartbeat.
I've always known that. I've lived the truth of that statement literally from the day I was born. I sometimes see those moments coming, sense them, anticipate them, as if they have an aura that precedes their arrival. I see one coming now. Adrenaline runs through my bloodstream like rocket fuel. My heart pounds like a piston. I'm ready to launch.
I've been told to stay put, to wait, but I know that's not the right decision. If I go in first, if I go in now, I've got the Golam brothers dead-bang. They think they know me. Their guard will be down. I've worked this case three months. I know what I'm doing. I know that I'm right. I know the Golam brothers are already twitching. I know I want this bust and deserve it. I know Lieutenant Sikes is here for the show, to put a feather in his cap when the news vans arrive and to make the public think they should vote for him in the next election for sheriff.
He stuck me on the side of the trailer and told me to wait. He doesn't know his ass. He doesn't even know the side door is the door the brothers use most. While Sikes and Ramirez are watching the front, the brothers are dumping their money into duffel bags and getting ready to bolt out the side. Billy Golam's four-by-four is parked ten feet away, covered in mud. If they run, they'll take the truck, not the Corvette parked in front. The truck can go off-road.
Sikes is wasting precious time. The Golam brothers have two girls in the trailer with them. This could easily turn into a hostage situation. But if I go in now, while their guard is down . . .
Screw Sikes. I'm going in before these twitches freak.
It's my case. I know what I'm doing.
I key my radio. “This is stupid. They're going to break for the truck. I'm going in.”
“Goddammit, Estes—” Sikes.
I click the radio off and drop it into the weeds growing beside the trailer. It's my case. It's my bust. I know what I'm doing.
I go to the side door and knock the way all the Golam brothers' customers knock: two knocks, one knock, two knocks. “Hey, Billy, it's Elle. I need some.”
Billy Golam jerks open the door, wild-eyed, high on his own home cooking—crystal meth. He's breathing hard. He's got a gun in his hand.
Shit.
The front door explodes inward.
One of the girls screams.
Buddy Golam shouts: “Cops!”
Billy Golam swings the .357 up in my face. I suck in my last breath.
And then I opened my eyes and felt sick at the knowledge that I was still alive.
This was the way I had greeted every day for the past two years. I had relived that memory so many times, it was like replaying a movie over and over and over. No part of it changed, not a word, not an image.
I wouldn't allow it.
I lay in the bed and thought about slitting my wrists. Not in an abstract way. Specifically. I looked at my wrists in the soft lamplight—delicate, as fine-boned as the wing of a bird, skin as thin as tissue, blue-lined with veins—and thought about how I would do it. I looked at those thin blue lines and thought of them as lines of demarcation. Guidelines. Cut here.
I pictured the needle-nose point of a boning knife. The lamplight would catch on the blade. Blood would rise to the surface in its wake as the blade skated along the vein. Red. My favorite color.
The image didn't frighten me. That truth frightened me most of all.
I looked at the clock: 4:38 a.m. I'd had my usual fitful four and a half hours of sleep. Trying for more was an exercise in futility.
Trembling, I forced my legs over the edge of the bed and got up, pulling a deep blue chenille throw around my shoulders. The fabric was soft, luxurious, warm. I made special note of the sensations. You're always more intensely alive the closer you come to looking death in the face.
I wondered if Hector Ramirez had realized that the split second before he died.
I wondered that every day.
I dropped the throw and went into the bathroom.
“Good morning, Elena. You look like shit.”
Too thin. Hair a wild black tangle. Eyes too large, too dark, as if there was nothing within to shine outward. The crux of my problem: lack of substance. There was—is—a vague asymmetry to my face, like a porcelain vase that has been broken, then painstakingly restored. The same vase it was before, yet not the same. The same face I was born with, yet not the same. Slightly skewed and strangely expressionless.
I was beautiful once.
I reached for a comb on the counter, knocked it to the floor, grabbed a brush instead. Start at the bottom, work upward. Like combing a horse's tail. Work the knots out gently. But I had already tired of looking at myself. Anger and resentment bubbled up through me, and I tore the brush through my hair, shoving the snarls together and tangling the brush in the midst of the mess.
I tried maybe forty-five seconds to extricate the thing, yanking at the brush, tearing at the hair above the snarl, not caring that I was pulling hair out of my head by the roots. I swore aloud, swatted at my image in the mirror, swept the tumbler and soap dish off the counter in a tantrum, and they smashed on the tile floor. Then I jerked open a drawer in the vanity and pulled out a scissors.
