by Sylvie Kurtz
He tossed her the note penned on King’s Arms Hotel stationery. A savage fierceness growled through his voice. “You’re right. How did he find us?”
The single sheet of paper with the perfect handwriting trembled in her hands. Love child? A child had been created, but no love had been involved. “I—I don’t know. Maybe Joanna told her brother. Maybe we were followed.” This wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t asked for any of this. All she wanted was to stay hidden long enough to testify at the trial and regain control of her life. “How should I know? You were the one with the plan.”
Gray settled in the driver’s seat. “We can’t go to Echo Falls. It’s too dangerous. If someone tailed us here, they could follow us to Bryn’s.”
She cradled her bag on her lap and looked straight ahead at the concrete pillars and the dark shadows writhing in the brassy light. His plan hadn’t worked. They were going to try hers. “Then I guess you need to make sure we’re not followed.”
GRAY CRANKED THE ENGINE TO life and backed out of the stall. How had Vanderveer’s gofer managed to find them at the hotel? Corinne was safely tucked into a parking garage miles away. Even if someone had attached a tracking device he’d somehow managed to overlook, finding the Corvette would lead to a dead end.
Had someone from Seekers guessed that he’d use this hotel? Kingsley had made no secret of his background. Everyone at Seekers knew Joanna had taken over the hotel and Meredith the real estate business when the senior Kingsleys had retired. Had Joanna talked to her brother? Had someone at Seekers passed on the information to Vanderveer?
That someone had found them this fast made no sense. He’d been careful. No one had followed him.
He didn’t like having to distrust people who’d become as close to family as he’d get. It was like being back in Echo Falls. Alone, except for Abbie. Abbie, who’d gotten pregnant with Vanderveer’s child. Pregnant. With Vanderveer’s child! How could she?
And why did the thought drive a bayonet of regret through his gut? He jammed the parking card into the slot and tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel while the barrier took its time rising. None of your business, Gray. He had no right to question Abbie about her choices. Hell, he’d never had the right. She’d turned him down flat from the get-go.
He nosed the car onto Rowes Wharf. The early hour and light traffic would make spotting a tail easy. He’d checked the rental for a tracking device and found none. No signs of tampering either. But that didn’t mean squat. If Vanderveer’s flunky knew they were staying at the hotel, she’d watch the lobby and follow them. No one had come down the elevator. But that didn’t keep his nerves from jangling like a buoy bell in a storm. She was probably waiting outside. He adjusted his mirrors for the widest viewing angle, made a sweep of his surroundings and turned onto Atlantic Avenue.
He didn’t want to bring trouble to Bryn. As much of a pain as she was, he still cared for her. But if he was going to have a chance at keeping Abbie safe, he needed information—and fast. Especially if a Seeker was involved in selling out Abbie.
As he merged onto the Mass Pike, his hands tightened around the steering wheel. No one was tailing them. But a shiver of warning zigzagged down his spine. Going to Echo Falls was a mistake.
THE THING THAT ABBIE HAD always liked about the Reed household was the noise. Her growing-up years had been marked with a need for silence. Shh, Abbie, your mother’s resting. Even after her mother had died, silence at the house had become such a habit that neither she nor her father could bring themselves to break its sanctity. Conversations were held in her studio or at his office or in the car while driving—never at home.
The Reed home always bustled with uninhibited noise—the television blaring in the background, Gray stomping down the stairs or teasing his sister, Brynna singing along with the radio or shrieking at her brother. Pillow fights and card games. Cookies consumed without a care about crumbs. And no adult supervision. There was a certain kind of peace among the chaos of their home, just as there was an insidious kind of chaos in the apparent peace of hers.
The atmosphere today in the Reed home had the weighty feel of a funeral parlor during viewing hours. The drapes were closed, shutting out sunlight and plunging the room into near darkness. Only the soft hum of the computers’ brains and the slow ticking of a clock shaped like a giant magnifying glass—that Abbie had given Bryn when she’d received her P.I. license—stirred the thick silence.
Reference books spilled from two tall oak bookshelves in the front parlor Bryn had converted into an office. A bank of file cabinets occupied a wall. Two desks with a faux-granite finish and two computers filled most of the space.
Abbie and Gray sat in stiff folding chairs. Bryn perched on her rolling office chair like a bird about to take off, one of her desks a pointed barrier between her and the visiting intruders. All three were parked as far apart as they could get from each other. Queenie, the Yorkie, sat in Bryn’s lap, a low growl rumbling her body like a lawn mower engine.
Gray and Bryn were both friends. Abbie didn’t want to take sides.
“How’s business?” Gray asked, hands hanging between his knees. His attempt at relaxation fell a shade off believable.
“I’m surviving.”
The wall of ice around Brynna should take care of the greenhouse-warming effect for the next decade.
“In Echo Falls?”
“The Internet has made it a small world,” Abbie said, trying to build a bridge between these two stubborn mules. “Brynna runs a lot of information searches. She’s the perfect choice for what we need.”
Brynna’s eyes were cool and flat, the color of neglected silver. Her once-bronze skin had faded to paste-white, emphasizing the freckles sprinkled across her nose. She hadn’t cut her hair in years, and the sandy locks were pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her round face was a study in sadness—one that would draw any viewer to tears if Abbie ever dared to capture it.
“Has anyone asked you to look for Abbie?” Gray asked, obviously giving up on small talk.
His particular brand of charm had never worked on Bryn anyway. She needs you, Gray. Don’t let her hardness fool you. “Gray’s trying to help me, Bryn.”
Brynna shot the zipper of her faded blue hoodie to just below her stubborn chin. Hostile energy crazed around her like lightning. “Of course not. I wouldn’t have betrayed Abbie.”
“You might not have meant to.” Gray softened his voice, but it still sounded like razor blades. “Did anyone ask for any information on anything that relates to the Holbrooks, the mill, the mansion or Echo Falls? Before or after her father’s murder.”
Bryn turned her back on them and pulled up the calendar feature on her computer. Her friend’s temper licked too close to the fire of resentment, and her staccato answer sounded like the gunshots Abbie had heard much too often lately. “The Holbrooks’ lawyers asked for an asset search. Nine months ago. For the bankruptcy proceedings.”
“You don’t need to justify your livelihood, Bryn.”
“I’ll need a copy of the report you gave the lawyer,” Gray said, peering at the slash of light between the drapes.
Bryn looked at Abbie and Abbie nodded. “I’ll print you a copy.”
Abbie could have kissed Gray for the patience and respect he showed his hurting sister as he outlined the information he wanted about Phil Auclair, the WITSEC inspector who’d miraculously survived three attacks, and Hale Harper, the newest Seeker. For pretending Bryn hadn’t ignored him for years. But then, Gray’s compassion even for the bullies who’d picked on him was one of the things she’d admired about him.
“When do you need this by?” Bryn asked, her attention focused on the notes she was taking.
“As soon as possible.”
Bryn blinked once, wheeled to the other desk and reached for the phone. Using the name BMR Financial Systems, a corporation she used as a front, Bryn requested a credit check on Phil Auclair with the three major services. Next she impersonated an insurance company an
d inquired about Phil’s driving record and the cars registered to his name. She logged on to a site of a company that collected public records and entered Phil’s name and searched for any lawsuits, marriages and divorces—anything that could be used against him to win his cooperation.
Watching her march through the steps of her search with dizzying speed and pick out what they needed was as if watching a circus juggler at work. She made it look easy. Abbie glanced at Gray and silently urged him to give his sister credit for what she’d done right.
A subtle shift transformed the rigid lines of Gray’s body from guilt-leaden to predator-primed. He rose from his chair as carefully as a tiger sighting prey. He sidled to the window he’d eyed since they’d arrived and scoured the street outside through the crack in the drapes.
Then, as cool as can be, he turned to Brynna. “Can I borrow a pound of sugar?”
GRAY EASED OUT THE BACK DOOR and melded with the cool shade of the two-foot-wide dirt alley between row houses. The old toolshed, the shape and size of a telephone booth, stood backed up to the sagging panel fence that separated Peanut Row from Mechanic Lane. The shed had once held a push mower, a snow shovel and his sports equipment. Now all that inhabited it was of the arachnid and rodent persuasion. He surveyed the street, taking in the raw neglect of a place without hope—the wealth of weeds on the postage-stamp front yards, the crumbling mortar on the brick steps and the bare wood showing through old paint.
Like his own rental parked across from Spinner’s Tavern, the white Taurus loitering on the opposite side of the street looked too clean for this neighborhood of dusty pickups and rust buckets. No one seemed to be sitting inside the Taurus, but he couldn’t ignore the stared-at feeling that had him wanting to brush down the raised hairs along the back of his neck.
Nobody hung on Peanut Row unless they had to. The odds were good the Taurus was here looking for Abbie. Was it here because they’d been followed from the King’s Arms Hotel? Because of the mole at Seekers? Or was it here because staking a lookout at the one place Abbie was likely to seek help was the smart thing to do?
Spiders never feasted at his neck unless there was a reason. Even though the driver’s seat looked empty, he’d bet a pair of Prada glasses that those invisible eyes were parked in the bucket seat. Steeltex would explain the phenomenon.
Gray figured he had three choices. He could go back and get Abbie and try to slip out unnoticed. Evading the tail wouldn’t take much work, but it wouldn’t ground it either. He could hike three doors down to the tavern, start a diversion and pour sugar down the gas tank while the tail was otherwise engaged. But that required a certain amount of cooperation from unstable sources.
Or he could bank on the tail not wanting to be made. Getting caught wearing a Steeltex suit was a ticket straight to jail. That would mean losing Abbie’s tail. And that would not please the bully paying the bills. He cracked a grin. Sometimes the smartest thing to bring to a gunfight was a knife.
One thing he’d learned while stalking prey in unsavory territory was that nobody fooled with crazy people. He’d cultivated a twitch just for the street. And that had allowed him to catch up with more than one dirt-bag on the lam.
He sneaked back into the house and grabbed the fatigue jacket that hung on the peg beside the door. His father had left it behind decades ago and nobody had ever moved it. Dust coated the shoulders, but he didn’t wipe it away before donning the coat. He snatched a kitchen towel that looked like a faded red bandanna. He slashed holes at the knees of his jeans, then smeared alley dirt onto his clothes and face for that chic-bum effect. Tying the towel over his head, he debated over his shades. With regret he stuffed them into the coat’s breast pocket.
The unaccustomed brightness had him blinking. He settled on the slitted look. It went with the crazies and it would keep the tail from pegging his eye color.
Using the backyards as cover he made his way to the tavern. He slipped inside through the alley door and nodded at the bartender as he made his way to the front door where, holding a knife up one sleeve and the plastic bag of sugar up the other, he staggered into the sunlight.
“Turn it down!” He looked straight at the Taurus, cut across the street seemingly as if he hadn’t cleared traffic, then pounded his fists on the hood. “Turn your freakin’ radio down! They’ll hear us.” He made his gaze dart around as if little green men were about to land and brought his voice down to a harsh whisper. “They can hear you through the radio.” He pressed his face against the driver’s-side window and peered inside. Nothing but a miragelike shimmer, as if whoever sat in the driver’s seat had leaned away from him. “It’s a conspiracy. They’re tuning in to our thoughts.”
A dark line appeared as if in midair. It streaked down like a line of sweat around a face. Interesting. “They take them out and put their propaganda in.”
He raced around to the passenger’s side and sawed off the antenna with his knife. Jumping up and down, he hollered as if he’d just won a race.
Lucky for him the Taurus didn’t have a locking gas cap. Lucky, too, that this model had the tank on the passenger’s side. Because this was the iffy part of the plan. Get the sugar in before whoever sat there quite knew what was happening.
Carrying on like a loony hearing voices, he ranted himself to the gas cap. He flapped the small door open as he bent forward proclaiming doom, then twisted off the cap. He raised the knife high, threatening violence against the unseen attackers. Then with a downward thrust of the knife, he sliced a corner off the plastic bag. As he pushed the makeshift funnel into the gas tank, he brought the knife’s point against the window and started scratching out a mad doodle. “Protection,” he rasped. “The eye will keep ’em away. They’re afraid of the eye.”
When the bag was empty, he stuffed it in his pocket and closed the small door. Pretending to hear a new set of voices, he jerked his head toward an empty truck parked on the other side of the street. “Hey, you! Yeah, you in the pickup! I said turn down the radio!”
He repeated his act, minus the evil-eye carving, at three more cars before disappearing between two houses. Keeping an eye out for the Taurus, he made his way back home. He ditched the coat and towel in the shed, put his glasses back on and went in to collect Abbie.
“How long is your search going to take?” he asked Bryn, scraping the dirt off his jeans.
Her gaze never left her computer screen. “A couple of hours for the basics. A couple of days for the rest to come in.”
Reaching out a hand to Abbie, who looked at him as if he’d just arrived from another planet, he said, “We need to go.”
“Leave a number, and I’ll get back to you,” Bryn said.
Gray hesitated. “Do you have a cell phone I can borrow? I can’t use mine or I’ll get tracked.”
Bryn’s fingers stilled on the keyboard, and he couldn’t help wondering what he’d said to warrant the ripple of fear across her shoulders. “Give me a minute.”
Once Bryn left the room, Gray turned to Abbie. “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t. I promised. But whatever you’re thinking…” Abbie shook her head. “What Bryn is doing—it’s good, okay?”
A leaden feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t have much choice but to accept. Right now Abbie’s safety had to come first.
Bryn handed a cell phone to Abbie. “Once you activate it, it’s good for only thirty minutes of talk.”
“Thanks,” Gray said.
Ignoring him, Brynna strode to her desk and went back to work as if nothing had happened.
“Bryn?”
“What?” Impatience cracked whip-sharp.
“Come with us.”
“No,” Brynn said with the finality of a slammed door.
“Are you ever going to forgive me?”
“I’ll let you know what I find.”
As he traveled the hall to the back door, his mother’s voice seemed to ooze from the brittle wallpaper. You’re a runner
just like your father.
And he was proving his mother right, because he was about to run out on Bryn yet again. At least she had a high-tech security system protecting the house. He’d also spied the Beretta in the top drawer of her desk.
As he opened the back door, Bryn’s voice drifted down the hall. “You got a place to stay?”
“I’m working on it.
She came out of her office looking like a waif in her loose jeans and baggy sweatshirt. Magpie Bryn, who’d always liked shiny objects, wore not one piece of jewelry. Where has your smile gone, Freckle Face? She flung a business card in his direction. The only thing on it was a phone number. “Mo’ll take care of you. She’s used to runaways.”
“Thanks.” He couldn’t risk using her contact, but he wasn’t going to throw back the olive branch she’d tendered in her face.
“For Abbie.”
Of course. “Watch your back, Bryn. This guy’s dangerous.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“HOLD OFF ON PICKING UP THE chocolates,” Rafe told Pamela when she checked in.
The drone of traffic buzzed in the background. He longed to get into his titanium-gray, three-liter, six-cylinder Z4 Roadster and open up the engine as fast as she would go. He longed for rack of lamb served on fine bone china. He longed for Stevie Ray Vaughan blasted through Bose speakers and curvy white limbs spread on red silk sheets.
“But I’m just about there,” Pamela whined, shattering his fantasy.
“The lawyers are working something out. I can open the box myself.” Satisfaction bubbled deep inside him, and he struggled to keep his emotions in check for the bullet-headed, brawny-armed guard listening in on his conversation.
He couldn’t wait. A day. Maybe two. How could they resist his ruse when he dangled a bigger prize than he was in front of their noses?
Oh, sweet Abrielle, I’ll get to taste you again before I squeeze the life out of your soft center. Just as she’d squeezed the life out of his future.
