The Kill Wire

by Nichole Christoff

  But that was only part of it.

  “I don’t want Cody to have to hear his father say his mother’s not coming back.”

  Slowly, as if she saw something on a far horizon, Mrs. Sandoval nodded.

  Something still hidden from my view.

  “You’ll find Elena,” she repeated. “You’ll find her for Marc’s sake.”

  And with that proclamation, she dried her hands, slipped her wedding band onto her finger, and paid me no more mind as she left me to settle into the corner of the sofa—just in time to watch Jeopardy.

  I could’ve bolted for my own room at that point. Instead, I honored my word. I’d tell Marc I was heading out—but I’d also tell him I could find my own way downstairs.

  I snagged my backpack, slung it over my shoulder. It strained the muscles under my shoulder blade and the ones that had already tightened along my backbone. I ignored the irritation, moved to knock on the bedroom’s open door.

  But the tableau inside stayed my hand.

  Tucked beneath the tan comforter and ivory sheets of the far bed, and wrapped in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, Cody had curled into his father’s side. Marc, stretched out beside him, rested his head against the headboard and crossed his feet at the ankles. He cradled a storybook in his lap.

  “ ‘Thank you kindly, Cousin,’ ” Marc squeaked, in a good imitation of the Country Mouse. “ ‘However, I’d best return home. I might not have much, except peace and safety, but these are worth the world to me.’ Then the Country Mouse packed his knapsack…”

  I stood in the doorway, transfixed. I’d never witnessed this ritual. At least, not in my adult life. I didn’t have children of my own. And much to my ex-husband’s amoral irritation, a team of doctors had told me I never would.

  Of course, I’d been a child once upon a time. But try as I might, I couldn’t remember my soldier-father tucking me into bed like this, cuddling me like this, reading a story to me like this. As my only parent, he’d been serious about raising a daughter to succeed in what he perceived to be a man’s world—and he’d never been sentimental.

  Three weeks ago, I would’ve said the same of Marc Sandoval. I knew him to be a tenacious and tough-as-nails federal agent, brash and brazen. But the magic of this moment, of the lamplight, of the storybook, transformed him.

  Or, maybe, that’s what love did.

  While I looked on, Marc finished the tale of the Country Mouse. Cody slumbered peacefully in the crook of his arm. And when Marc glanced my way, I still couldn’t move from the doorframe.

  “I’m going,” I whispered. But even whispering left a lump in my throat. “I just wanted you to know.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Marc murmured.

  Before I could object, he slipped from under Cody’s nodding head, smoothed the covers over his boy, and dropped a kiss on his brow.

  Wordlessly, Marc lifted my backpack from my shoulder. We slipped from the apartment and into the hall. Silently, we rode the elevator together.

  My room was smaller than the floor plan the Sandovals would share two stories up, but it was still meant to accommodate a business traveler. A mini-fridge/microwave/wet bar combination met us just inside the door. In front of the window, a simple desk on wheels could double as a dining table if I wanted it to. A single lamp cast a ring of weak light at the edge of it. I didn’t bother to click on any more.

  Past the desk, a queen-sized bed had been heaped with a lofty comforter and plenty of pillows. At the foot of the bed, a wide padded bench waited for luggage. Marc deposited my backpack on it.

  “I called the hospital,” he said, speaking at last. “It’s not looking good for Helena.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I also reached Elena’s brother, Robert. He’s coming in from Chicago to look after his mother—and to plan his father’s funeral.”

  Marc dropped to edge of the bed, rubbed his tired eyes. The urge to comfort him—to wrap my arms around him and to kiss his neck just behind the shell of his ear—came on strong. Squelching it, I drifted toward the window and swept back the sheers.

  I said, “I understand Elena has a valid hairstylist’s license.”

  “She does.”

  “You told me Elena quit the federal prosecutor’s office when she went into rehab—and that she contributes financially to Cody’s care. But you didn’t tell me where she’s working these days.”

  “In a salon,” Marc replied. “Near Manitou Springs.”

  I didn’t like that Marc hadn’t told me this sooner. It made me wonder what else he felt he should keep to himself. But busting his chops for it just then seemed too much like kicking a man when he was down.

  Instead, I said, “Then, the salon is where I’ll start tomorrow. Tonight, you should go upstairs. You should get some rest.”

  “That’s not going to happen, babe. Not until we find her. Not until I can tell Cody what’s going on.”

  Beyond the window, the sun had set. The sky was a pale lavender in its afterglow. And in the distance, pinpoints of light twinkled up and down a ragged range of mountainsides.

  I said, “Your mother will worry if you’re away too long.”

  “My mother will worry anyway.”

  This was probably true.

  I said, “I don’t think she likes me very much.”

  Marc nearly laughed. “Since I screwed up with Elena, my mother doesn’t like any woman who gives me the time of day.”

  “And are there many of those?”

  I hadn’t meant to ask the question. Hadn’t even realized it was on my mind. But now it was out there and I couldn’t cover up the fact that, from time to time, I had wondered about Marc’s shenanigans with other women—and how he thought I fit into the picture.

  “I won’t lie,” he told me. “There’ve been more than a few.”

  I’d figured as much. But figuring and knowing were two different things. And knowing Marc’s bedroom had a revolving door built into it—rather than just imagining it did—irritated me more than I’d ever admit.

  Behind me, Marc got to his feet.

  His reflection shimmered beside mine in the windowpane.

  He said, “I haven’t been serious about any of them.”

  “Well, that’s not much of a recommendation. Of them…or of you.”

  I abandoned the view, stalked to my backpack, and made a show of unpacking it.

  “I know,” Marc admitted. “And I was all right with that. Until last autumn.”

  I didn’t want to hear this. I fished my hairbrush from my bag, grabbed at the elastic band holding my ponytail together, and dragged it from my dark hair. But my headache had taken up permanent residence in my neck and not even this made it let go.

  “Jamie,” Marc murmured, “lie down on the bed.”

  I didn’t turn to look at him. I couldn’t bring myself to face him. “If this is the one where the guy says, ‘We’ll be able to talk this out if we just take off our clothes,’ I’ve heard it before.”

  “Have you heard you’re terrible at hiding that headache?”

  “It’s just a touch of altitude sickness.”

  “Among other things.”

  Marc’s strong hands closed over my shoulders. He massaged the cramping muscles there. And their release made me weak in the knees.

  “Come on,” he coaxed. “Lie down on the bed and I’ll rub your back.”

  I wanted to tell Marc to forget it, but I knew he wouldn’t. And given that I’d flown to Colorado to find Cody’s mother for him, I couldn’t let a headache slow me down. The meds I’d swallowed hadn’t made more than a dent in the pain behind my eyes, but I needed my eyes and my brain to be able to fire on all cylinders. I needed to be able to act wisely. But wise or not, I did as Marc said.

  Self-consciously, I slipped off my square-rimmed glasses and propped my cellphone on the nightstand. I kicked off my boots. I lay facedown on the beige comforter and rested my cheek on my folded arms. The room’s long shadows shifted. And t
he bed pitched as Marc sat at my side.

  His fingers combed through my long locks, caressed the nape of my neck. “Of course, if you want to take off your clothes, babe, don’t let me stop you.”

  “I’m just here for the back massage,” I grumbled.

  Marc chuckled. His palms smoothed over my shoulders. His thumbs eased down my spine. Somehow, he convinced the knots in my muscles to let go. And without meaning to, I closed my eyes.

  Instantly, my busy mind kicked into overdrive. It revved with a hundred thoughts—and a thousand questions. Had Elena fled because a couple of thugs made mincemeat of her car’s wiring? All signs pointed to yes. But did she know a killer had practically decapitated her dad?

  Marc leaned close to me. He whispered in my ear. “I can hear you thinking.”

  “What’s the matter?” I mumbled. “Don’t like women who think?”

  “On the contrary. But thinking won’t do your headache much good right now.”

  He had a point.

  But I had a lot to think through.

  “The attack,” I said, “on the Prebles…It was a message. But what good does it do if Elena doesn’t get it?”

  Marc’s hands stilled. “You think she’s nearby?”

  I tried to shrug, ended up yawning instead.

  And Marc’s fingers feathered through my hair.

  “You know, you haven’t asked me about her.”

  “I did,” I murmured. “On the plane.”

  “You asked about dates, facts, and figures.”

  Marc smoothed a fingertip across my cheek.

  I didn’t dare open my eyes.

  But that didn’t stop him from saying, “You haven’t asked me about my relationship with Elena. You haven’t asked me about my relationships at all.”

  I turned from his touch, buried my face in my arms.

  “It isn’t any of my business,” I declared.

  Marc, however, wasn’t willing to accept that answer.

  “What if,” Marc demanded, “I want it to be your business?”

  Chapter 10

  A persistent buzzing pulled me from a dreamless sleep.

  The room—my room—was dark. At the window, pinpricks of light filtered through the sheers, but they didn’t illuminate much. I rolled onto my side, shoved at the comforter that weighed me down.

  Marc must’ve covered me.

  The thought was fleeting. Until memory caught up with me. Marc’s amazing hands. My deep-seated hesitation. His provocative question…

  I hadn’t given him an answer. He hadn’t pushed for one. And in the uncomfortable quiet that grew between us, I must’ve fallen asleep.

  Now my headache was gone. And so was Marc. But on the nightstand beside me, the buzzing started up again.

  My phone.

  I fumbled for the thing, managed to flick it on.

  “Jamie Sinclair,” I mumbled.

  And after a long pause, my caller said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Barrett.

  I tried to push myself into a sitting position, ended up falling back on the mattress when that seemed like too much effort.

  “You didn’t,” I assured him. “The phone did.”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I heard how dumb they were. I forced myself upright, threw my legs over the edge of the bed, and clicked on the bedside lamp. And that’s when I realized this call was a video chat.

  “Honey,” Barrett said, “are you okay?”

  He was perfect. Judging by the way he came across my phone’s skinny screen, the day’s hike hadn’t hurt him one bit. Now, off-duty, cleaned up, and reclining against the headboard in his billet in Fort Donovan’s Visiting Officers Quarters, Barrett looked like the star of an All-American aftershave commercial.

  “I’m all right,” I promised him. “I came down with a bit of altitude sickness, complete with a killer headache.”

  “Was it altitude sickness? Or the investigation?”

  “Maybe a little bit of both,” I admitted.

  And without naming names, I told Barrett about the rat’s nest under the hood of Elena’s car, the trip wire that triggered the shotgun at her parents’ house, the garroting of her father, and how her mother had been beaten to the edge of death.

  Barrett whistled low and long. “That’s one hell of an intimidation campaign.”

  “Or it’s a hunting technique.”

  Talk to some anthropologists and archeologists and they’ll tell you both fossil evidence and early art has shown prehistoric hunters used to band together to drive prey, such as buffalo, into a waiting trap—like off a cliff. The method made sense before the advent of supermarkets, collective farming, and hunting rifles. But it still had its adherents today, like the whalers who flouted international law to force entire pods of porpoises into coves for all-out slaughter.

  “Sounds like this missing mom isn’t missing,” Barrett said. “She’s hiding.”

  “And someone is trying to flush her from the underbrush.”

  “If that’s the case, your perpetrators may have themselves some kind of surveillance setup. They might be in position to watch for her if she comes running.”

  But where?

  Before I could figure it out, Barrett said, “How’s your client holding up?”

  “My client?” My face flashed hot. “He’s fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Whether he realizes what’s happening or not, this can’t be easy for him. And that can’t be easy for you.”

  It wasn’t.

  For too many reasons to count.

  “Jamie, just promise me one thing,” Barrett said.

  I didn’t dare reply in case I couldn’t honor his request.

  “If some heavies really are targeting this woman,” Barrett said, “don’t get caught in the crossfire—”

  “I won’t.”

  “—for her—”

  “I promise.”

  “—or for anyone else.”

  My mouth went dry when Barrett said that. I wasn’t sure what I wouldn’t do to guarantee a storybook ending for that sweet child, Cody. And I had no idea how far I’d go for Marc.

  Not long after I reached that unsettling conclusion, Barrett and I exchanged awkward good nights. In a heartbeat, I got out of bed, shoved my feet into my boots. I grabbed up my jacket, ransacked my backpack for a knit hat and gloves, and stowed the spare key fob to the Santa Fe in my pocket. Because whether Barrett liked it or not, I’d come to Colorado with a job to do. And I intended to do it.

  At least Barrett, being an experienced investigator himself, had confirmed my belief that the destruction to Elena’s car—and the assault on her parents—might’ve been meant to manipulate her. And as he’d pointed out, the miscreants who’d done the damage might be watching in case Elena came running. Of course, if strangers had staked out Elena’s mobile home, I was fairly sure Mrs. Vesterny would’ve busted them for it. But that left another possibility. And when I recalled what had happened when Marc had cut across the Prebles’ yard earlier that day, I decided to see if that possibility would pan out.

  Midnight caught me cruising down the Prebles’ street, where, thanks to a waxing moon and streetlamps on each end of the block, I could make out the sheriff’s crime-scene tape fluttering across the couple’s front door. Rendered a pale gray by the limited light, it served as a warning: trespassers will be prosecuted. But that was okay.

  I wasn’t interested in their house, anyway.

  Across from the Prebles’, the home with the FOR SALE sign in the yard resembled all the rest of the raised ranches up and down the street. The curtains in its front window were still drawn. And all its lights were out. Maybe that meant the inhabitants who’d monitored Marc’s progress across the lawn that afternoon were snoozing in their beds.

  Or maybe it meant something else altogether.

  Slowly, I circled the block. I made note of every car, truck, and SUV parked in every driveway and along each curb. None of the vehicl
es were too fancy—or too shabby. Either would be a sign that something was off in this middle-class neighborhood, but everything was as it should be.

  During my second sweep, an upstairs light flicked on behind a frosted window four doors down. Someone, no doubt, had to make a late-night trip to the bathroom. I drove past the place and rounded the corner. At the limit of my headlamps’ reach, a skinny coyote paused to eye me as she darted across the street. In darkness again, she vanished as if she’d never been.

  After my third pass, I parked on the back side of the block, cut my engine and my lights. Stationed just short of a fire hydrant, I could slink low in my seat, peer down the property line between one neighbor’s row of evergreens and the other’s chain-link fence. And I could see the back of the house in question.

  Like the Prebles’ place, it boasted a back door into the garage and another that certainly communicated with the kitchen. Unlike the Prebles’, however, it had no deck. Only a concrete patio, bare of furniture but home to a pair of Rubbermaid trash bins, took up space all the way to the corner of the house.

  The garage was a single story, while the rest of the home formed a floor and a half. At the far end of the garage, where the patio came to an abrupt halt, the ladder-like remnants of a TV antenna’s tower reached past the roofline. And that gave me an idea.

  When twenty minutes had passed without a living soul stirring up or down the street, I snapped off the SUV’s dome light and slipped into the cold night. Sticking to the deepest shadows, I cut between the houses facing this side of the block, my breath forming white puffs in front of me. On my right, the neighbor’s dense line of evergreens could hide me in a pinch, but on my left, the chain-link fence marking out a play area for the neighbor’s children wouldn’t be nearly as helpful. Neither would the doghouse at the back of the yard if it had a canine in residence. No hound, however, came barking as I tiptoed carefully along the fence line. And where the chain link ended, the winter lawn of the house for sale began.

  Ducking beneath its kitchen window, I stopped, looked, and listened. I heard nothing. And when I slowly peered over the sill, I saw nothing because the window’s horizontal blinds had been shuttered tight. Moving on, I inspected the back door. No power tool had drilled its lock, but that didn’t mean someone hadn’t gained unlawful entrance.