He chose to get with the program.
“If something more occurs to you, Ms. Sinclair, get in touch. Elena Preble’s life might depend on it.”
“Of course,” I replied. “Where are you staying?”
“You’ve got my number,” Douglas countered.
“I’ve got Ingram’s.”
But Douglas wasn’t the kind of guy who’d run the risk of having to play second fiddle to his partner.
He pulled his mobile phone from the inner pocket of his suit coat.
“I’m texting you. Then you’ll have my info,” Douglas said. “Be sure you use it.”
“Oh, I will,” I replied, and smiled when his message lit up my phone.
Seven minutes later, as the last rays of the setting sun filled the interior of our rented Honda with a rosy glow, Marc said, “I don’t like how Douglas never mentions Lucy Ribisi’s kid.”
We’d left Douglas and Ingram at the burger joint, but we hadn’t gone far. Parked among a haphazard row of vehicles outside a mobile walk-in clinic temporarily stationed along Fortune’s Crossroads’ busy byway, we waited for the marshals’ dark sedan to pull onto the road. When it did, Marc made sure to stay at least three car lengths behind. Because neither he nor I had appreciated how Douglas dodged my question regarding where he and Ingram were staying. And the smart money was on finding out.
“Lucy’s got to be alive,” I said. “Douglas thinks he’s protecting her and her daughter by repeating the lie that she’s dead. In the meantime, whether he realizes it or not, he’s risking Elena’s life.”
“And Cody’s.”
For the time being, however, Cody was perfectly fine. Marc had spoken to him just moments ago when he’d called Mrs. Sandoval to check up on them both. Cody had burbled about his abuela’s baking and the city for his Matchbox cars he was building with Legos.
Marc missed his son deeply. And he worried about him, too. I could see it in the set of his shoulders and hear it in the tone of his voice when he talked to the boy—even if he wouldn’t tell me about it.
Ahead of us, Douglas and Ingram slowed for a right-hand turn onto a skinny country road jutting off into the twilight. The relatively flat landscape enabled us to keep them in sight even as Marc kept his distance. But it wouldn’t be long before we’d have to turn on our headlights, and that, in this rarely traveled neck of the woods, would make us stick out like a sore thumb.
The marshals’ taillights fired red as Ingram tapped her brakes to turn again. The car rattled across a cattle grate and into a clearing ringed by a cluster of cabins prettier than Sam’s on the outside, but probably not as luxe. A small billboard on top of the first cabin read HUNTER’S HAVEN. CABINS BY THE WEEK. REASONABLE RATES.
Marc drove on so we wouldn’t be seen snooping. He turned around in some farmer’s lane, and when we passed the camp on our return trip, the marshals’ sedan sat between two of the smaller cabins. Douglas headed to one with an overnight bag in his hand while Ingram slammed the car’s trunk and turned with her own bag toward another. Of course, Marc and I had no guarantee that the marshals were down for the count. But it sure looked like we’d see no more of them tonight.
Frankly, I was glad when Marc came to the same conclusion and pointed our SUV toward Sam’s. I hadn’t been kidding when I’d told Douglas I wanted to crawl into a hole with some Tylenol. Worst of all, my bumps and bruises were the least of my hurts. I’d killed a man today. And the fact that it had come down to kill or be killed in the Strathmeyers’ kitchen didn’t ease the pain much.
Sleep would do me a world of good. And after a hot shower, I gladly crawled into bed. I dozed off the instant my head hit the pillow and I slept deeply—until a cold ripple of icy air passed over me.
At first, I merely tugged the top quilt closer to my throat. But that didn’t warm me up. Instinct warned me that something wasn’t right, and still half asleep, I slid a hand along the sheets.
“Marc?”
My fingertips didn’t encounter Marc’s T-shirt. In fact, his half of the bed was cold. Wide awake now with a jolt of adrenaline, I sat bolt upright, clutching the covers to my chest.
Marc, however, was gone.
Chapter 36
In the still of the night, I could just make out the bedside bench, the kitchenette’s cabinets, and even the comfy armchairs, but Marc was nowhere to be seen. The light of the heater’s faux flames licked at the furniture and furnishings. And at the cabin door—which stood open wide.
I threw off the bedclothes, shoved my feet into my boots, and snatched up my jacket.
“Marc?”
He didn’t reply.
Or he couldn’t.
Carefully, I stepped toward the door, all my senses on high alert in case someone had arrived, in case someone had lured Marc outside, and in case that someone was dangerous. I had no weapon to defend either of us. And I couldn’t afford the time to find one.
Sneaking flat to the cabin’s wall, I peered past the doorframe. Instantly, I spotted Marc standing on the beaten patch of dirt before the cabin. He was alone.
And shirtless.
And barefoot.
Heavy clouds blanketed the earth, making the night warmer than it should’ve been. But it wasn’t too warm for snow. Ethereal flakes, the size of goose down, floated on the crystalline air.
“Marc?” My voice was small in this great outdoors. “Is everything all right?”
“No,” he replied.
I crossed the front porch and joined him.
His arms hung loosely at his sides, his face turned to the regal expanse of the sky. He blinked slowly as the snow lit on his dark lashes. Gently, I touched his bare shoulder.
“I love watching the snow fall,” he said. “It’s a fresh start.”
He was right in a way. Fresh white snow already blanketed the fields that tumbled past the cabin in all directions, making everything new. The cloud cover above caught the snowfall’s reflected light and created a quiet world of deep purple twilight. This was a different world than the one I’d known when I’d gone to bed, weary and worn out. This was a benevolent world—and it was oh, so beautiful.
“I went to Washington for a fresh start,” Marc said. “I went to Washington for Cody.”
“I know,” I murmured. “One day, he’ll know it, too.”
“Do you know,” Marc asked, “that I’m not good enough for you?”
His question stunned me.
It embarrassed me, too.
Marc sighed at the night sky. “Maybe I would’ve made better choices if I’d known you’d come along.”
“Don’t say things like that. Don’t even think them.”
I clasped Marc’s hand in both of mine. His skin was ice cold. I had no idea how long he’d stood outside in the dark, but it had been too long.
“Look at you,” he said, regarding me at last. He swept the back of a finger along my battered cheek. “When anyone needs help, you’re all in. You’re always all in.”
“You’ll catch your death out here. Come inside.”
“I’m not like you.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“I can’t be all in—”
“It’s all right.”
“—but I want to be. For you.”
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry.
“I’ve fallen for you, Jamie. I’ve fallen in love with you.” Marc’s eyes were as dark and deep as the night as he gazed into mine. “You don’t have to say anything. You definitely don’t have to love me.”
And when Marc said that, my heart broke in two.
“We’ll…we’ll figure something out,” I promised. “This business with Ribisi. Elena and Cody—”
I stopped short of mentioning anything between us.
“Come in, Marc, and we’ll talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
Hot tears rushed up on me out of nowhere. I refused to let them fall. Marc must’ve seen my struggle. His fingers laced through mine.
And after a moment’s hesitation, he let me lead him inside.
I banished Marc to a hot shower, ordered him not to come out until his skin turned rose gold with the heat. He’d be lucky to escape pneumonia. And if he came down with it, I knew I’d blame myself.
I triple-locked the door behind us, turned on the candle-like sconces. Beneath a pair of the flickering lights, Marc’s jacket lay on the bench beside the bed. In the pocket, his cellphone began to ring, and at this time of night, so close to the break of dawn, a phone call is rarely a good thing.
I fished Marc’s phone from his pocket, just as he emerged from the bathroom still shivering in nothing more than his track pants. He needed that hot shower, but I offered the mobile to him. And in handing it over, I saw the word MA lighting up his caller ID.
“What is it?” Marc said, answering the call without preamble.
I heard his mother’s panicked voice, high and tinny as it traveled through the phone. Marc blanched. And he put Mrs. Sandoval on speaker.
“—checked his room before I went to bed. He was sleeping like a baby—”
Cody, I realized. Something has happened to Cody.
“I woke up all of a sudden,” Mrs. Sandoval continued. “I didn’t know why—”
“Ma.” Marc’s patience evaporated. “Where’s Cody?”
“I don’t know! The sliding glass door was wide open. And Cody is gone!”
“Call the police,” Marc said.
“Could Elena…Do you think Elena took him?” Mrs. Sandoval breathed.
She might’ve.
But I didn’t think so.
And that’s when it hit me. I’d seen only two men at the Strathmeyers’ farmhouse: the guy with the gun and Knuckles. Max Ribisi and his dirty cop could’ve been anywhere. Like deep in the barn, or already in the getaway car. Or on a plane to San Antonio, acting on info they’d squeezed from Robert Preble. After all, Robert had inadvertently pointed them to Toomey. And Robert had known Marc had sent Cody with his grandmother, too.
“Someone did take Cody,” I said. “But I doubt it was Elena.”
Marc caught my drift.
“Call the police,” he urged his mother a second time. “They need to search for Maximillian Ribisi and his associates. You got that, Ma?”
“Y-yes.”
“I’m catching the next flight down. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”
Mrs. Sandoval began to sob. Marc began to speak to her in soft Spanish. And I began to pack my bag.
I dressed in a dash, hauled my backpack outside, and tossed it into the SUV’s cargo compartment. Slamming the trunk shut, I perched on the bumper and searched for flights with my cellphone. The sun had begun to rise, lightening the night to a pale shade of lilac that made everything it touched serene. Except me. I didn’t feel that way. Not after Marc’s profession of love. Or Mrs. Sandoval’s emergency call.
Cody had to be safe. Ribisi had only taken the boy to smoke out Elena. We had time to get him back. Cody had time. At least, that’s what I told myself—but I forgot that line of reasoning when the crunch of tires sounded on the lane’s new-fallen snow.
I skirted the side of the cabin, kept behind its corner, and peered at the bend in the drive. Headlights bobbed down the track as a vehicle approached. It could’ve been Sam’s gas rustlers. Or it could’ve been goons capable of killing Elena’s father, a minister, and a married couple in their own farmhouse before leaving trip wires behind.
I had no time to warn Marc. He was on his own in the cabin. And I had no backup, except access to the SUV. If I got into trouble, I’d have to get myself out of it. I’d have to get Marc out of it, too.
I could see the vehicle now. It was a Toyota Camry in a shade of deep beige some designer probably got big bucks to name “driftwood.” The car rolled to a stop. Through the windshield, I could make out the driver’s silhouette. Male, I would’ve said.
He cut the car’s engine and the headlights died, too. He reached for something on the passenger seat beside him. It could’ve been anything. A map. Or a weapon.
The driver’s door creaked open. The man got out. And my heart went into free fall.
“Barrett? What are you doing here?”
The planes of Barrett’s face might as well have been hewn from granite for all the expression they offered. “I got lost on my way to the beach.”
But then Barrett’s chocolate-brown eyes shifted to study the damage to my face. Even with a couple of yards between us, I knew the cuts and bruises couldn’t be pretty by the light of the rising sun. Still, Barrett’s scrutiny turned me suddenly shy. I glanced toward the cabin’s porch, considered making a break for it. And locking myself inside.
But then Barrett breathed, “Jamie, what happened to you?”
And that changed everything.
I launched myself at him, wrapped my arms around his tapered waist in a fierce embrace. He didn’t exactly return the gesture. But I didn’t mind.
“How did you find me?” I mumbled against his strong shoulder.
Barrett’s shoulders could put a prizefighter’s to shame.
“Piece of cake,” he said.
But it wasn’t. When I’d served him his walking papers, I’d told him I was in North Dakota, where cellphone towers were few and far between. No doubt Barrett had called in a favor or two to use the network to trace me. Once he’d made it as far as Fortune’s Crossroads, he could’ve canvassed waitresses, gas station attendants, and everyday strangers—just as I’d done to locate Dustin Toomey. Regardless of how Barrett had tracked me down, however, I was grateful he had. Although I may’ve been happier to see him than he was to see me.
And that brought me to an unpleasant truth. Marc would be ready to roll at any moment. And we had to hit the road because a little boy’s welfare was at stake.
“I’ve got to catch a flight.” I released Barrett and stepped away from him.
“You’re working,” he said, but there was the whisper of a question in the statement.
I nodded. “For Marc.”
Barrett went absolutely still as he processed this information. He’d known from the get-go that Marc had wanted to edge him out of my life. Now here we were, with Barrett on the outside looking in.
“I can’t go into details,” I told him. “But something awful has happened. Maybe Marc will tell you about it himself.”
“Maybe he will.”
Barrett mounted the porch, entered the cabin.
And when he did, I was right on his heels.
Chapter 37
Marc, still barefoot and shirtless, stood alongside the tiny cabin’s big bed, zipping up his faded jeans. He grabbed a long-sleeved T-shirt from his bag, hauled it on over his head. “Babe, the next flight’s not ’til—”
His words faded in midair when he realized he and I weren’t alone anymore.
“Well, well,” Marc said, looking Barrett up and down as if sizing up an opponent before a barroom brawl. “Don’t tell me the army’s sent you to single-handedly defend North Dakota against a Canadian invasion.”
Barrett didn’t respond.
He was too busy scowling as his eyes drifted from Marc, to the rumpled bed built for two, and back again.
Like me, Barrett had been married before. But that all ended when his wife was unfaithful. Barrett had been serving our country in that dead-end destination soldiers called the Sandbox. And while he was under fire, his wife had been getting it on with a math teacher back in the good ol’ US of A. Barrett found out about her duplicity when an ugly incident sent him home full of shrapnel.
I also knew the pain caused by a philandering spouse. And though Barrett and I weren’t married, this situation still had to feel like a betrayal to him, because it felt like one to me—even though nothing had happened between Marc and me. Or mostly nothing.
“Pardon me,” Barrett said to no one in particular. “I think I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He turned on his heel.
I shadow
ed him outside.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I told him.
“Oh, good,” Barrett replied, halfway to the Camry already. “Because it looks like you’ve been playing house with Sandoval.”
“I haven’t. And if I had, it would be none of your business. I told you goodbye, Barrett.”
“I remember. ‘Send me a postcard.’ I’ve never had a woman give me the brush-off with such a lame line.”
I stopped short, crossed my arms against my chest. “Then what are you doing here?”
The question shuddered through me and made me tremble. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear Barrett’s answer. Maybe pride had prompted him to come see for himself what a fool I was.
Maybe he’d seen enough already.
Barrett shoved his fisted hands into the deep pockets of his coat. He glared at the toes of his boots. That should’ve felt better than having him glare at me, but it didn’t.
He demanded, “What are you trying to do, Jamie? Fix Sandoval’s problems? Or fix him?”
“He needs to fix himself.”
And that was true for most of us.
I drifted past Barrett, leaned a hip into the front panel of his car.
“Besides,” I mumbled. “I think I might be the one who’s broken.”
“No, although from the cuts and bruises you’re wearing like tiger stripes, I’d say people are trying to break you. They haven’t succeeded yet, have they?”
I threw him a dirty look. “I did a lot of damage in Mississippi, Barrett. And I’ve done some here.”
“As I recall, you had a little help in Mississippi.”
Barrett meant from Marc. And he was right. Marc Sandoval had been my partner in crime when I’d hijacked a small-time crook named Eddie Jepson, when I pushed him too far during a crazy questioning session, and when I turned him into a liability that a crime boss felt forced to eliminate.
Barrett pinched the bridge of his nose, leaned beside me against the Camry’s driftwood paint. “Do you like who you are when you’re with him?”
“I’m not with him, Barrett. I’ve never been with him.” But my conscience made me add, “Though I’ve been tempted.”
The Kill Wire Page 22
